


Handling a Dark-Lord Wannabe

by cleighc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, Psychopaths In Love, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleighc/pseuds/cleighc
Summary: Hermione was not amused. Not. At. All. They had defeated Lord Voldemort after years of struggle. Witnessed the end. She had thought, with relief and without an ounce of charity, that she never had to deal with that pretentious, presumptuous, melodramatic, homicidal son of a bitch ever again. Apparently the castle had other ideas.





	1. Hermione is Initially Bested

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction will contain lots of profanity and rather descriptive images of violence and death. You have been warned.

**Chapter 1: Hermione is Initially Bested**

* * *

 

Hermione was not amused. Not. At. All.

They had defeated Lord Voldemort after years of struggle. She had worn Riddle’s locket, shoved a basilisk fang into the fucking cup. Witnessed the end. She had thought, with relief and without an ounce of charity, that she never had to deal with that pretentious, presumptuous, melodramatic, homicidal son of a bitch ever again.

Apparently the castle had other ideas.

All attempts to reconstruct Hogwarts had gone nowhere. The precarious state of the wards around the school let in unmentionables in the form of very much unwanted creatures; all the way from garden gnomes and nifflers, to boggarts and dementors. They were everywhere. She could not walk to the remains of the library without casting a Patronus Charm. It was absolutely ridiculous.

And the castle would not stay intact. It apparently took some sort of offense to unintentionally being ridden with dead bodies. Rubble, with said bodies, occasionally fell from the ceiling. Usually while people were walking underneath. It was a disturbing hazard.

So when she stepped into the 7th floor corridor, only to nearly be crushed to death by falling rocks, she was not surprised. Another avalanche occurred at the other end. Hermione was caved in, and considered, while staring into the blank eyes of Colin Creevey with no small amount of hysteria, how long it would take them to unearth her.

She huffed, mentally berating her loss of nerve, before taking out her wand. She was not weak. She was not. She was a capable witch. But as she tried to levitate, bombard, blast, and destroy the rubble to no effect, she could admit to a tear. But it was in frustration.

She started to pace, her thoughts consumed with the horrific state of the victims of the war that surrounded her, and she wanted a way out. She wanted, impossibly, for all of those people who died to come back. She wanted the castle whole. She wished this whole bloody war had never happened in the first place.

A very familiar door appeared, and she had to start. She had not seen the Room of Requirement operational since it was consumed in Fiendfyre, so was justifiably wary when approaching it.

It opened, and she didn’t bother to bite back a sigh of longing at seeing a cozy intact room with a roaring fire and stocked bookshelf. She didn’t have anything else to occupy her time while she was waiting to be set free, right? So what was the harm?

She should have known better, she should have fucking known better. One moment she is in a nice cozy room enjoying _Why Do Wizards Curse?_ (an entertaining, if rudimentary endeavor at applying Muggle psychological theories to Wizarding culture), and the next she had stepped into a damage-free corridor and was explaining to a much younger, still alive Dumbledore that she had been born in the future. She was brought to the Head office, and as she argued to both Dumbledore and a disinterested Headmaster Dippet why it was _imperative_ that she be allowed to take 9 N.E.W.T. classes, she glossed over her academic history as a future Gryffindor. They nodded their heads, the over-indulgent expression on their politely misogynistic faces obvious enough to make her fists curl, before they said they would “give it a trial run”; evidently with the full expectation that she would come crying back, overwhelmed, at a later date.

She could barely keep the sneer off her face as they sent her off to the library, with a fucking lemon drop of all things, in order to find the Head Boy so she would be “squared away”. When she heard Tom Riddle’s name, she had to stop herself from screaming in frustration. She knew it was a close call because Professor Dumbledore had given her an odd look, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.

Needing a touch of privacy to handle the impending meltdown, Hermione marched straight to the girl’s bathroom on the second floor (suspecting it to be empty, and because really, why the fuck not), and didn’t bother to check if the stalls were unoccupied before she bellowed out her lungs in frustration and anger. She admitted to just a sprinkle of fear, but she was mostly angry. Why? Fucking why? She had spent the last seven years dealing with this shit! She thought she was done with that arrogant, overbearing, psychotic…

She stopped yelling through frustrated tears when she thought she heard a hiss from somewhere around the sinks, and turned, her damp face lined with a scowl. “Like I give a shit, you bloody, fucking snake,” she sneered into the middle of the room.

Hermione knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she was having a tantrum and using profanity as a kind of coping mechanism in order gain some snippet of control, and to deal with the anxiety of her situation. Knowing that didn’t help, although she gave a half-hearted attempt to stop the stream of obscenities muttered under her breath as she washed the remains of rubble dust from her hands and face.

She decided to go to the library. She did need to find out what to do next in order to get situated, acquiring robes and school supplies and such, and didn’t want to bother having to explain why she held it off.

Hermione was making her way down the hallway, striding at a reasonable pace considering how upset she was, as she planned the upcoming encounter. She intended to be curt. Brief. Aloof. Hopefully uninteresting. Never before would brevity, as she envisioned it, be accomplished in such a way.

She was stopped by her no-longer dead Professor, who thought to give her some advice.

“I hope I do not need to remind you to circumvent the reasons for your appearance? Yes? And I assume someone of your intelligence-,” he paused and looked her over, the unvoiced “self-professed” ringing in the air, “-to know the importance of observing the rules of time-travel.” Again, silent insinuations that fairly screamed “don’t mess with the time frame” were impossible to miss.

She nodded. Did her best to hide the bitterness threatening to bloom from somewhere in the pit of her chest.

And continued to the library.

It wasn’t hard to find Riddle. His Head Boy badge gleamed, the coil in his carefully crafted hair fell over a complexion that glowed, and the polish on his shoes reflected random beams of light with a sheen. She witnessed a girl come up to him from behind, and she was horrified to see a perfect set of pearly whites that damn near glistened. It was disgusting, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking over her dusty, grimy, nondescript black robe and unruly, impossible hair with thick resentment for a couple of beats.

Familiar resignation set in.

And it was in this charming mood that she approached Riddle.

“Tom Riddle?” she asked, vying for cold politeness. Instead it sounded strained and angry.

“Hello?” he asked, curious and perfectly polite. He looked her up and down, his face giving away nothing, but Hermione still bristled.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she did not have the patience to deal with an alias. “I am a new student. Headmaster Dippet informed me that you would be able to help me with the details of my transfer.”

His eyes flashed with irritation, even as an empty smile stretched his lips. “Of course.”

He led them out of the library to the room where they kept extra supplies, doing his best to engage in small talk. Hermione did her best not to participate. She reluctantly told him that she planned to attend nine N.E.W.T. level classes, although she intended to take eleven of the exams, and didn’t miss the hastily hidden sneer of disbelief.

“That is rather ambitious,” he stated instead, giving another cursory glance of her robes. Hermione assumed it was to locate a House affiliation. She didn’t bother to fill him in.

They reached the room, and Tom began to describe the procedure of checking out used items until such a time that she could afford to buy her own, or graduate. Whichever happened first. Apparently this practice started during the last Goblin Rebellion, which led to an influx in the number of orphans admitted, and it was only through heavy petitioning at the Ministry and the patronage of a few well off families (the Malfoys among, she was disgruntled to hear) that allowed these resources to appear. Tom added, with a sour expression, that there was a heavy stigma associated with the use, so that even the poorest of families would make a concentrated effort to purchase their own supplies. Which explained why none of the Weasleys participated.

She was fascinated despite herself. “Why was none of this printed in _Hogwarts, A History_?” she could not help but gripe aloud.

Tom clearly commiserated. “You would not believe how much they don’t bother to include. But this doesn’t surprise me. After all, the last couple of editions were endorsed by Cantankerous Nott.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. She was well aware that the man was suspected of having authored the Pure-Blood Directory, and he was openly disdainful of both the impure and the poor. He probably wanted to avoid mentioning something he found so distasteful. She scowled.

She was about to grab and check out her needed items, but paused when a blonde Draco Malfoy look-alike strutted into the room. “Tom,” he drawled, “Professor Slughorn asked me to find you in order to inquire about the Slug Club Party in two weeks. He said you volunteered to decorate.” His amused smirk faded as soon as Tom’s eyes flashed.

“It was just a suggestion. Not an offering of services. Idiotic man,” Tom hissed, scowling.

The blonde teenager (Hermione guessed it was Abraxas Malfoy, and she mentally snickered while dubbing him Abby) asked with obvious hesitation, “What should I tell him?”

Tom looked around with a contemplating frown, before eventually settling on her face, his dark eyes disconcerting in their intensity. He then smiled charmingly at her. “Tell him that I would love to help, but I have very little experience decorating. Fortunately, there is a new student who would love to be of assistance.”

Then his eyes widened and his face brightened in a way that made him seem both earnest and rakishly handsome, with a hint of vulnerability. Hermione had little doubt that this display had won over many an unsuspecting witch. "Would you be willing to give me a hand? I would be very much in your debt."

Indignation swept away any lingering fear, as well as the lamentable physical effect of his dapper appearance. And, unfortunately, her plans to be curt.

Hermione could not stop the initial scowl, nor the unpleasant sound her mouth made as her teeth clenched, but she made the best of it, giving him a tense, nasty sort of smile. “I apologize if this comes as a surprise, but I am not the kind of female who has any experience in this area.”

"Oh?"

She stared at him unpleasantly, unwilling to elaborate.

Tom’s smile never wavered. “What _do_ you have experience with?” His insinuation was clear.

Hermione’s smile sweetened. “Curses.”

Tom’s eyes flashed with something that looked like intrigue, and Hermione cursed her big mouth. “Well, I imagine that someone with your ambitions-,” he gave her a pointed look, “-is capable enough to transfigure and charm a few decorations.”

She aimed for innocence, looking up at him through her lashes. “Are you not capable?”

Abby’s lips twitched in amusement as Tom fought an almost tangible wave of irritation. His smile grew strained. “Of course I am, but as Head Boy-,” he looked down at his badge, and then back at her as if he couldn’t trust her to make the connection herself, “-I am terribly busy.”

Hermione found an unexpected amount of pleasure from irritating him. Perhaps if she had a better sense of self-preservation she would use more caution, but at this time, she just couldn’t be bothered. Besides, it’s not as if she was sorted into Slytherin.

“Oh, I had no idea. You led me here readily enough…,” Hermione added a long, implicative pause, and continued, “But this must be a terrible imposition.” She opened her eyes wider in false consideration.

Tom nodded, his smile still stiff. “Oh, not at all. Accommodating new students is a necessary duty I am happy to perform. Besides, how could I resist a pretty girl like you?” His tone was a touch away from sarcastic.

She knew that was her cue to bat her eyes at him and smile insipidly, but she couldn’t. Not for the life of her. She looked down at herself and back up at him with a raised brow. “Of course you couldn’t,” she didn’t bother to hide her scorn.

This was, apparently, an unexpected response judging by his furrowed brow, but she didn’t give him the time to retort. “In any case, as I already stated, decoration is something I have no expertise in, and thus I know little about conventional styles or complimentary colors. It would be ghastly, and I’m afraid this Professor’s good opinion about you would be negatively affected as a result.” Tom’s picked up on the subtle threat, and his mouth thinned, even as she continued, “And we couldn’t have that. Especially considering all that you have done for me.”

“Wouldn’t his opinion of you also be affected?”

Hermione snorted. Pointedly held up fingers that were stained with ink, her nails clipped short in a no-nonsense manner. Opened her mouth. And sarcasm poured. “And of course I care. Because adhering to conventional standards of beauty and excelling at skills perpetuated by societal gender norms… and building my self-confidence off of the affirmation and admiration of others, even at the expense of more academic pursuits… is obviously _so_ important to me.”

She openly sneered. “What does this Professor teach?” she asked Abby, grateful that she remembered to ask.

“Potions.”

She looked back at Tom. “Outside of Potions, I couldn’t give a shit about his opinion.” She had learned this lesson at the hands of Severus Snape the hard way. Not everyone was going to like her. Although this statement may have been part bluster, part over-exaggeration... “Excuse me.” She grabbed a Potions set from a shelf.

Abby looked at her with a considering look. “Ravenclaw?”

She walked over to the selection of robes and, while looking at both boys with a defiant turn of her chin, pulled out Gryffindor robes. Both boys seemed surprised.

“A Gryffindor?” Abby muttered.

“And she plans to get eleven N.E.W.T.s,” Tom added around a scowl.

“Eleven?” Abby stated, both eyebrows reaching his hairline as he looked sideways at Tom for affirmation. Both boys gave her looks that reeked of skepticism and chauvinism in turn. Hermione glowered. This was really getting old.

“Yes, eleven. Now, if you would excuse me? I understand you’re busy," she stated, turning her head dismissively, her tone sardonic. She could hear Tom grind his teeth from a few feet away, and had to suppress a smile.

“Of course.” It sounded like a promise.

It was. She was held over after her first Potions lesson (Professor Slughorn was delightfully surprised by her perfectly brewed Blood-Replenisher Potion, and the small modification she made to improve the taste) and informed her that she and Tom would be working together decorating the dungeons. Considering how drastically Tom’s expression had changed from his earlier fury (Slughorn was rather verbose with his praise) she was reasonably sure of his culpability.

That son of a bitch. Hermione watched Tom grab their Professor's attention before she could inform the man that she felt uncomfortable participating, and waited until she got caught up in the crowd leaving the Dungeons. And now if she tried to back out of the agreement, she would have to explain why she didn't disagree right away, and... for fuck's sake, why did she still care this much? Maybe after she got her bearings she could think of a proper excuse...

But getting her bearings proved to be more difficult than she had anticipated. Her treatment at Hogwarts drastically worsened in the next week. The day after her Potions lesson, rumors had spread about her use of Hogwart’s extra supplies. While that didn’t inspire any overt abuse, she received a fair amount of disdain and discrimination. The day after that one of her housemate’s accidentally saw the scar carved into her left arm as the sleeve of her pajamas rode up while she was brushing her teeth. Lilac White made the current assumption about her blood status, and could not wait to tell everyone she knew.

It was then that the abuse turned physical. There were random hexes in the hallways and outside the castle. Several attempts to shove her. Her borrowed belongings were misplaced. Worse was the silence of hastily stifled conversations that trailed after her everywhere she went.

A couple of the Professors even treated her differently after the news, refusing to call on her in class or award her any House points. Not that the experience was new for her, but it was disappointing.

Her obvious skill and success in all of her classes made it worse. She knew it was her fault too; she could have acted ordinary, or did more to blend in, but she couldn’t help but react to the doubt imposed on her by anyone that mattered. She had not lied to Tom- she couldn’t give a fig if the man knew she had poor fashion sense. But she could not bear the thought that her professors and fellow classmates might think she was stupid or inept. And the insinuations made in regards to her intelligence and capability due to her gender, class, and blood-status instigated defiance, and in some cases, belligerence. She spent every second she had researching better shields that could ward off hexes while she was otherwise occupied, or silent, but poignant forms of retaliation. She also strived, not only to be proficient, but exceptional in her classes. That involved extra research, practice, and in some cases, experimentation.

She and Tom started an unspoken war centered on which of them could successfully and most impressively cast the required spells first. Some days, in some classes, it was Tom. In others it was Hermione, and she could tell that the inconsistency infuriated him. She saw him in the library more, obviously incentivized to dominate her class performance. They avoided each other for the most part, and otherwise gave each other empty pleasant platitudes in passing.

She tried multiple times to get the Room of Requirement to open, but the door never appeared. Her frustration at the castle’s interference grew.

The tension culminated at the end of the week as an ambush on her way out of Potions. She was jostled around a corner from the classroom, still in the dungeons, and was surrounded by six, scowling teenage boys, all wearing Slytherin robes.

Her wand gripped in nervous anticipation, Hermione let out an annoyed breath of air.

“Do you mind? I need to go to Arithmancy. As do you, Malfoy. Rosier. Rockwood.”

They tried to glare at her menacingly, bless their hearts, but Hermione had lived through a war. She had fought grown men. These were children, holding weapons that made them believe they were adults. And their insecurity showed; why else would they have felt the need to have _six_ of them?

She non-verbally cast a shield over herself, one that wouldn’t alert anyone of its presence. There was something to be said about successful subterfuge.

“Filthy fucking Mudblood,” Abraxas sneered, as he took a step forward and thrust his wand a few feet from her face.

It was such a cliché. Merlin’s pants, you would think after three generations they could come up with new insults. She pouted. “What was that, Abby? Something’s got your knickers in a twist.” She took a step toward him, and then another, her eyes hard. To say she was sick of the abuse was an understatement.

Abraxas sneered with, and she could tell, false bravado. “You are a disgusting waste of space. You don’t have any friends. Your very existence is an abomination, and you are soiling Hogwarts.” A couple of the other boys nodded in support.

Hermione snorted. “What are you, a Hufflepuff, Abby? To base my worth off the number of friends I have?” She took another step forward until she was stepping into his wand. He took a step back. “An abomination, am I? And yet you couldn’t even cast a Stupefy yesterday in class. So what does that make you?” She ended with what she thought was a tasteful scoff.

She paused for two seconds, waiting for the hex at her back to bounce off her shield, before she cast a non-verbal with a wide swipe of wand that pushed pulsing air out in an arc, forcing half the boys into the wall and the other half on their backs. Abraxas came to his senses and fired two bright red hexes at her, which slid off her shield just as she retaliated. “ _Petrificus Totalus_ ”. Abby fell.

They were decent, she could admit. And so enthusiastic. But she was no slouch, and she had an impressive arsenal of spells lodged inside her brain. It didn’t take long until they were all on the ground, although she did appreciate the opportunity to try out her new hexes and curses. It made for an entertaining duel.

Barely fifteen seconds passed after the last one fell before Tom strode in, fury in his wake. Hermione couldn’t resist. “Tom! Just in time! Could you ask your minions to choose a better spot the next time they intend to ambush someone? Slughorn is just around the corner. One good scream would have sent him running.”

His scowl was one of anger and frustration. “What?” Hermione continued, smirking. “I thought we could make this exercise educational. Otherwise it would just be pathetic.”

The lines on his head deepened with the force of his frown, before her word choice brought him up short. “Minions?”

Hermione didn’t even need to lie. “They follow you around like abused lovers, Tom. Although if they really are after power, I don’t understand why they think you will give them any.”

His head tilted, eyes intense, although the scowl didn’t leave his face. “Why is that?” he asked, slowly, as if tasting the words before they left his mouth.

She looked him in the eye, and said, “I can imagine how they treated you during your first few years here. Poor orphaned Tom, needing to rely on the school for his supplies. Where did he come from? Who are his parents? Probably muggles, why else would they leave him in an orphanage. Mudblood Tom and his pathetic attempts to make something of himself. He doesn’t deserve to be a wizard.” It was surprisingly easy to channel her own insecurities into what she remembered about Tom’s past.

Tom’s expression became homicidal. And she had never really understood what that really meant until this moment. His eyes flashed with a psychotic gleam, and his entire body tensed, as if he was ready to spring into action and strangle her at a moment’s notice.

Oh dear. She seemed to have gone too far.

 “And the only reason I know that is because I have gone through the same thing. Am going through the same thing. And this treatment hardly leads one to become endeared with Pure-Blood rhetoric or society.”

He remained tense and silent, watching her like a predator. He took a step toward her.

“Just a scream away,” Hermione reminded him. She knew that she should be afraid. Or nervous. But all she could feel was the familiar rush of endorphins, and the resentment over her situation forever bubbling under her chest.

Another step.

“Aren’t we missing Arithmancy?”

Another step, and while his gaze turned curious at her nonchalant attitude, she quickly and nonverbally cast a series of counter-curses. As groans filled the hall and the boys started to rise, she tried to slip past Tom.

He grabbed her forearm in an unrelenting grip.

“What, are you planning to skive? I understand you’re Head Boy. That’s hardly responsible, model-student-like behavior.” Hermione yanked at the arm, and debated about whether or not she was willing to make more noise.

He shoved her up against the wall, and physically loomed over her. “Somebody’s got to teach you to watch your tongue.” Her wrist burned from the intensity of his grip.

Hermione scowled, angry at the treatment. “Left to use Muggle tactics? Because you can’t best me using magic? You poor thing.”

Tom put his face in hers. His gaze was intense.

But there were suddenly a set of heavy footsteps heading their way, and before she knew it, Tom had spun her around so that his back was against the wall. Her hand caught the front of his robes in an attempt to keep her balance amidst the momentum, and Professor Slughorn chose that moment to turn the corner.

Tom immediately started speaking. “I’m sorry, Granger, but I just don’t feel the same way.”

She let go of his robes as if burned, her eyes wide. Tom continued. “Oh, please don’t cry. You are very smart, and very pretty-,” his compliments were patently insincere, and his eyes danced maliciously, “-and I’m sure you will find someone who will make you very happy.”

Hermione took a step back, absolutely infuriated, as Professor Slughorn chimed in, “Of course Tom is right, Miss Granger. Plenty of fish in the sea, and you certainly are a catch. I actually intended to invite you to an exclusive club I hold…”

She spun towards the Potions Professor, rambled out “I would be delighted,” before stomping around the corner. Hermione stopped for a moment, needing to catch her breath and talk herself out of giving in to any of her own homicidal impulses. It was at this moment that she heard Tom address their Professor.

“I am so sorry you had to see that, sir. She has been quite forward in her advances, and to be honest, I felt slightly uncomfortable decorating the dungeons with her. But I knew this was important to you, and I wanted to do a good job…” He trailed off suggestively.

Professor Slughorn was quick to respond. “Not to worry! I’m sure she will be capable of doing the decorations by herself. I can’t imagine that she would be any less skilled in Charms than she is in Potions. I am sure it will turn out fabulous!”

Hermione forced herself to walk away. She was so incensed her hands were shaking and she was forced to take large, gasping breaths. That fucking tosser.

Hermione could not help but consider her situation in a state of cynical, self-deprecating fury as she stomped up the stairs. Her future was bleak, surrounded by death, and her one possible avenue of romantic entanglements ended when Ron realized that, as a war-hero, there were few women he couldn’t have. Her present was infuriating, chock-full of bullying, blatant sexism, and a Dark-Lord wannabe who always seemed to be _there_. The only thing keeping her in check was a warning imposed by Professor Dumbledore, whose behavior had been nothing to write home about. And the possibility of time at Azkaban, should she completely lose her temper.

In other words, she was not at all invested in keeping to the timeline. She didn’t care about Dumbledore’s good opinion, or the possibility of changing the future. Fuck them. Her situation was ridiculously unfair. It was not her fault that she was stuck in the wrong time and didn’t have any money. It wasn’t her fault that she had magic and was the daughter of muggles.

And it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t stop herself from irritating a certain Tom Riddle. His beauty and impeccable manners were disgusting, his brilliance infuriating, and his face oh so punchable… but he was so entertaining when he puffed up like a disgruntled peacock everything time there was any knock at his pride.

More importantly, however, he made her angry enough to be fit to be tied. Never again.

It was with this resolve that Hermione decided to screw the fucking timeline. She would do things her way. She wouldn’t bother trying to play nice. She would get the upperhand of that bloody conceited, haughty, disturbingly clever teenage Dark-Lord wannabe, or she would die trying.

 

* * *

 

**To be continued…**


	2. Hermione Plots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione decides how to move forward with her very much not asked for situation.

**Chapter 2: Hermione Plots**

* * *

 

Hermione headed back to the Gryffindor Common Room, having stopped at the extra supply closet to pick up robes, nightclothes, and casual wear (she was more than a little exasperated to see that her only options were dresses). They were all very good quality items, which didn’t surprise her; it was probably a point of pride that the donations be “superior” as to reflect that image off their donors.

Her visit had been prompted by a stray hex that caught her as she stepped outside of the Ancient Runes classroom, before she had a chance to put up a shield. She was 95% sure it was Avery that had sent the hex, which set the sleeves of her robe on fire. She made sure to meet his eyes in a silent challenge as she nonverbally extinguished the flame.

As she put her clothes on a bed, Hermione picked out a dress (she made sure it was green, feeling defiant) and headed to the showers. Unfortunately, the school had not seen fit to give her anything to wash her hair with. This slight seemed so congruent with every other bit of unpleasantness happening right now that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing bitterly.

But wait. Why should she have to feel this wretched? She had decided to take back this time for herself. Which means she had options that didn’t involve a pathetic display of oily curls and facial acne caused by washing her hair with a fucking bar of soap. Hermione considered for a moment, and then headed to the shared cupboard that contained everyone’s bathing supplies with a sly grin. Lovely Lilac White had been so helpful as to label all of her hair products. What a dear.

That taken care of, Hermione began to plot as she showered. She knew the first order of business necessary was to address the rampant bullying. There was no way she would be able to wipe the floor with Tom while she was constantly worrying about getting hit by random hexes in the hallways. She even considered, practically licking her lips at the thought, of being able to turn the opinion of the school against him. After all, Tom was _so_ proud of his carefully-crafted image…

Hermione had a lot to work with. She had been bullied fairly consistently throughout her life. Primary school consisted of hateful taunts and insults at the “ugly teacher’s pet”, staged snubs, and the occasional hair-pull or book thrown in mud. Bullying at Hogwarts employed many of the same tactics, with the addition of magic. Wasn’t it lovely that she had so much experience trying different responses. She had been argumentative, confrontational, violent, pleading, and on one notable occasion had even feigned ignorance bliss; she discovered that ignoring their behavior by responding as if they hadn’t been bullying her was the most effective. By not acknowledging their behavior, and without an entertaining reaction that rallied non-participating bystanders, bullying didn’t have a leg to stand on.

She knew that the Slytherins, whose respect was founded according to different values and who were much more willing to physically harm her, had to be handled different. Her blood status would be a serious barrier, but she planned to tackle it by emulating Riddle to some extent. Establishing herself as a person of power, and someone too dangerous to dally with inconsequentially. This would require a public demonstration of defeat that the Slytherins would be able to easily attribute to her, but that wouldn’t get her in trouble.

And she had a personal grudge to settle. Avery.

But how should she pull that off in a way that would win her esteem? Hermione thought about the kind of things Slytherins respected. Resourcefulness. Cunning. Ambition. Heritage, obviously, which could represent wealth or family connections. Although wealth only had power up to a certain point- there is only so much you can spend. So in reality it was knowing the right people, specifically being backed by the right people. It was about being valued, and put in positions of power because of what she could contribute. It was about being able to rally people behind her so she stayed in power.

So what did she have at her disposal? Intelligence. Cleverness. Bravery. Magical Prowess. But more than that…. Knowledge. About the future. About some of the dirty secrets carried by these ancient families that came out in trials over the war. And about a certain aspiring Dark Lord.

Hermione grinned. And if she remembered correctly, Avery was actually ophidiophobic. Lord Voldemort had found out during the first Wizarding War, and thought it an apropos way to execute the man. Which was incredibly ironic. Although, as a Slytherin, this was probably embarrassing enough that he had neglected to tell his housemates.

The idea was delicious. But where would she get a snake? And how would she introduce it to him? A conjuration might work, but the snake in question would disappear after a few  hours… which might be better, now that she thought about it. But where to put it?

Hermione had a strike of inspiration. She smirked. And wouldn’t it be lovely to invite Moaning Myrtle to participate? Tom would love that.

 

* * *

 

Hermione decided to start her crusade on her housemates as soon as she got out of the shower. She brushed through her hair, pleasantly surprised at how easily it run through (it seems Lilac bought the good stuff), and went down to the common room. She saw a group of flyers pined against a nearby wall. One of them listed a dueling competition.

How perfect. She practically purred. Public demonstration of power, check.

She fairly skipped to the armchair next to the fireplace and got _Advanced Transfiguration in Less Wandstrokes_ out of her bag. She opened the book to a random page, and barely had to wait a minute before someone gave a fake little cough that reminded Hermione unpleasantly of Umbridge.

“Hem hem,” the girl said again when she didn’t respond. Hermione didn’t bother to look up.

“Excuse me, Mudblood? You’re in my seat.” Hermione absentmindedly turned a page. She froze when she felt the tip of a wand press against her forehead, instincts cultivated in the war kicking her adrenaline into gear. Her wand-hand twitched. Down girl, she told herself. Now is not the time to be confrontational.

“What language. And pulling your wand on an unarmed person? How did your parent’s raise you?” Hermione looked up into the eyes of Mildred Shafiq, close friend and confidant of one Lilac White, but with an attitude less like a Lavender Brown and more like a Pansy Parkinson.

The girl sneered, but moved her wand back a few inches, and Hermione tried her hand at wandless casting. She had been practicing the skill since the end of 6th year; she and Harry actually spent a fair amount of time in the tent attempting it after she lost his wand over Christmas. It was like trying to scoop oil out of water with her hands, and she still wasn’t always successful. She carefully sucked in a breath, the only indication of her success, as an invisible magical shield settled over her skin.

Shafiq continued. “That is my seat.”

Hermione blinked, before looking down at the armrests and the cushion. “You bought this seat? And are you even allowed to have personal furniture in the Common Room?”

Shafiq’s brow creased as she snapped back, “No, I didn’t buy it, but that’s the one I always sit in.”

Hermione nodded. “Ah. And are you physically unable to sit in any of the other seats?”

Shafiq scoffed. “Well, that is the beautiful thing about having your own seat. I would never need to find out.”

Hermione leaned forward and clenched her fist in front of her dramatically in a facetious show of support. “But today could be that day. Find your inner Gryffindor. Be courageous.”

An angry hiss was all the notice Hermione had before a Jelly-Legs curse slide off her shield onto the floor. Hermione’s expression remained blank. It wasn’t until the black-haired girl had cast an additional three that Hermione started to lose her temper. And not because Mildred was being an annoying harpy, but because everyone else in the common room was pretending that she wasn’t being openly cursed in the middle of the Common Room.

Fuck her plan, she decided. They were Gryffindors; unless she addressed this head-on little was set to change. Hermione nonverbally disarmed Shafiq and sent her into the armchair opposite of hers. She then cast a sticking charm on the other girl’s arse, and made a show of getting up.

Shafiq tried and failed to stand. Her expression had turned panicked. “You can’t do this.”

“I can’t? And yet, there you are,” Hermione stated sardonically, before turning to face the common-room. “Excuse me! There are a few things we need to address.” Most of the room’s occupants turned to her in curiosity, a few with obviously distrustful gazes.

She introduced herself. “Hi all! My name is Hermione Granger, and I just wanted to say a few things about myself since you have all been _so_ welcoming.” A few faces had the decency to look abashed.

She didn’t think it was a good idea to tell everyone that the castle was capable of sending people through time. “I am a victim of an accident with a Time-Turner. I attend Hogwarts several decades in the future, and have been proud thus far to be a Gryffindor. I have worked hard to protect Hogwarts and its students, and any scars I received was in pursuit of that. I do not know if the treatment I have received from my house thus far is a testament to the change in times, but in my time the only people to be so openly discriminatory towards people based on wealth or blood status were Slytherins. Perhaps someone could enlighten me?”

A boy in the crowd frowned. “Who said you were being picked on because of your blood-status? I heard rumors that you were consorting with Slytherins.”

Another boy, much taller than the first, said, “My sister said you fancied Tom Riddle, and were following him around like a puppy. Despite the fact that he wanted nothing to do with you.”

A girl this time, “Really? I heard that he did want her, and that they were consorting together in some kind of depraved romance.”

Another girl. “It’s not a rumor! I saw you in the library with Riddle! You were practically sitting next to each other! And you guys talk all the time in class!”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself from scoffing. “Practically sitting next to? Really? And Tom and I argue in class because we have a tendency to disagree. Do you remember what we were talking about, Johnson?”

The girl frowned. “Arithmancy?”

Hermione’s lips pursed. “That’s right. Because we were in Arithmancy. And I can promise all of you that I have not been… fraternizing with any Slytherins. But even if I was!” She stopped, and tried to look as many of them in the eye as possible. “Is that really a good reason to bully your classmate?”

The tall boy frowned. “But they’re Slytherins.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Which obviously means that all of them are currently being groomed to commit evil, atrocious acts, aspiring to become the next Dark Lord?” Her tone was sarcastic, although once she thought through the statement, she mentally winced because, yes, that is exactly what was going on.

The students around her frowned. “Look,” Hermione continued, “I would really appreciate it if some of you would back off, and maybe even support me when I get attacked by the other Houses. I am doing my best to adjust and find a way home, but it has not been easy, and I don’t have anyone that I can trust to support me.”  

There were nods in the crowd. “Are you really from the future?” a voice asked from the back.

“I am.”

“What year?”

Hermione frowned, considering. But, what the hell. “I started attending Hogwarts in 1991.”

A female voice from her right. “But that’s in fifty years!”

Hermione nodded, a little exasperated.

“Can you tell us what happens?”

“Who wins the World Quidditch Cup next year?”

“Who becomes Minister of Magic after Spencer-Moon?”

Hermione answered in quick succession. “Ireland. Wilhelmina Tuft. And the usual. Ongoing conflict between traditionalist Purebloods and progressive Muggleborns.”

Mildred frowned from her place by the fire. “I thought you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about future events in the case of a temporal incident.”

Hermione met her eyes with a devil-may-care grin. “Whoops.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione walked into the Great Hall flanked by no less than six Gryffindors. They continued to ask questions about the future, but Hermione only responded to some of them, so it was tapering off. Instead they talked about shared interests and the like as they sat down at their House table. She looked over at the Slytherin table in curiosity and noticed Riddle frowning at her. She sent him a smug smile and flickered her fingers in a poor imitation of a wave. His frown deepened.

One of the boys beside her, who she had delightfully discovered was Harry’s paternal grandfather, gave her a look. “You do realize that looks like flirting, right?”

Hermione looked at Charles Potter with a wry smile. “You have no idea how much I hate that man. I just enjoy irritating him.”

Potter frowned. “What has he done to warrant hate? You have only been here a couple of weeks, right?”

Hermione looked over at Riddle. “He is a lying, pretentious psychopath. And just look at his stupid face.” She turned to Potter with a look that said, how could anyone _not_ hate him?

Potter snorted. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” He then bit into a dinner roll nonchalantly.

Hermione stared. Harry’s grandfather quotes Shakespeare? And he even looked a lot like her bespectacled friend. How terribly odd.

“You were right, though. When you accused some of the students in Gryffindor of ignoring or insulting you because of her blood status. It’s just that no one wanted to admit to it after you compared us to Slytherins,” Potter added, spearing a green bean.

Hermione nodded. “I suspected as much.” She poked a bowl of sliced beets in mild consideration. They… jiggled. Hm. “Should I expect them to continue?”

Potter shook her head. “Not after you called them out on it.”

Hermione sighed. “Hopefully that lasts.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast passed without incident, which was significant. No stray curses, no hexes waiting at her seat… Her housemates worked quickly.

She headed to the library unusually optimistic, hoping to find some materials about decorating or design that could help guide her on her upcoming task. While Hermione realized that by agreeing to decorate Slughorn's party she was capitulating to a certain infuriating Head Boy, the potential embarrassment she would have to face confronting a Professor who was liable to commiserate over her apparent rejection easily overrode the inconvenience of attempting to decorate a party.

Twenty minutes later Hermione found herself cursing her pride under her breath as she flipped through fashion and home decorating magazines. Successful decorating on a non-existent budget proved to be more complicated than she originally thought (of course, perversely, the transfiguration of certain table decorations would be some kind of social faux pas).

It wasn’t until she was ready to tear the contradicting magazine articles to shreds with her twitchy fingers (how could both beige and magenta be the “color of the season”? What the fuck did that even mean?), that she stopped herself. And resisted the impulse to swat at the school librarian hovering nearby with suspicious glare.

Why was she trying so hard to prepare for this stupid party? Why did she still care?

Because she had lied to Tom yesterday. She did care. She hated to fail at anything. But that attitude had caused her so much misery, simply because it was impossible for her to be good at everything. She had recognized, during a brief flash of epiphany in her fifth year, that the reason she cared so little about Quidditch was probably because she was resentful at her lack of success…

Of course Riddle would choose that moment to sink into the chair next to hers, looking at the magazines with obvious disdain. “I seem to recall you stating that you were not interested in these kinds of things.” He flipped the page with a finger, his face showing equal parts disgust and disturbed curiosity.

She scowled. “I’m not. If I had any say, all of these pointless, idiotic magazines would be shredded and used as fodder for flobberworms.” She threw the magazine away from her, the revulsion thick on her face.

Tom snorted. “And yet, here you are.”

Hermione sent him a glare (whose fault was it that she was here in the first place?), before she sighed loudly. It wouldn't do to provoke him in public. She had other things to handle before she was ready to tackle Riddle.

But really, why was he here again? “Research.”

Tom looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Research? So you are the type that hits the books when confronted with anything unfamiliar?” He sneered, eyes dancing with mocking amusement, “Have you educated yourself about sex already? It’s not as if you will be getting any practical experience.”

Hemione’s eyes hardened in indignation.

“And speaking of…” Tom continued, looking from the glossy neat curls on the top of her head, down to the black belt that clinched the green dress around her waist, taking note of her decently sized bust outlined in between. His gaze was not appreciative so much as it was assessing. With a condescending sneer he asked, “I remember you stating that you don’t pay attention to, what was it… conventional standards of beauty.”

Hermione frowned in frustration. “It’s not as if I had much selection when deciding what to wear. And this-,” Hermione gestured to her hair, “-is au naturel. Why Riddle? Is your appearance so difficult to maintain? Be honest. How many minutes do you spend in front of the mirror shaping your kiss curl?”

His eyes flashed even as his lips curled upwards. “I wake up like this.”

Hermione made a very unladylike noise. “Sure you do.”

Tom huffed.

Hermione continued, “And you are here because?”

Tom’s animated face became dispassionate. “According to our lovely madam librarian, you have the only copy of _Arithmancy and Potions: A Guide to Calculated Experimentations_. I need to look at it for my Potions essay.”

Hermione dug the book out of her bag and slide the text towards him across the table. “Here. Take it. Hopefully you will find it more useful than I did.”

Tom’s brows furrowed. “What was wrong with it?”

Hermione practically growled as she thought about it. “Have you read any of Cassandra Dechant’s other work?”

Tom paused, curious. “No.”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself from ranting. “She has a disturbing tendency to use circular reasoning in order to defend assertions she claims are revolutionary because they have never been considered before, but in reality are unrealistic and impossible to reproduce. In this book,” Hermione gestured angrily at the book in front of Tom, “she greatly over simplifies all of the variables you need to take into account when creating a potion, and then has the gall to criticize successful potioneers for their apparently misplaced brilliance. Sure she covers basic ingredients, the order of the ingredients, and the number and direction of stirs. But she doesn’t even mention things like the material of the cauldron, the material of the stirring rod, the way the ingredients are prepared, the different treatments of heat, and the use of crystals as a catalyst. And she lists no reliable way to test for alternative ingredients while being able to predict how that would change the order and stirs, or what subtle differences would manifest as the potion was used…” Hermione trailed off awkwardly as she took in Tom’s obvious interest.

Wrong audience, Hermione. Control yourself.

Tom was also noticeably amused, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from snapping, “What? I’m a swot,” defensively in response.

Tom smirked. “I can tell.” He paused, his brow furrowed in consideration, before he went on to say, “How do you know for sure that those details were purposely not included? Or that she forgot to include them, as opposed to assuming that most individuals attempting to cast the spell would be using standard potions equipment?”

Hermione’s face scrunched up, thinking. “But what use would amateur potioneers have for employing both Arithmancy and Potions? Isn’t it typically used when attempting to create new potions, or to find alternatives for potions already in existence? Wouldn’t that be dangerous for someone without the proper experience?”

Tom’s brow raised. “Perhaps she intended for her text to be treated as an introductory look at some of the variables to take in mind when preparing to use Arithmancy in potions-making? I doubt most individuals in our N.E.W.T. Potions class would be able to handle all of variables you mentioned.”

“But all of those variables matter! How are you supposed to create an effective potion otherwise! And if you don’t even mention the possibility, isn’t that misleading?”

“And don’t all of those individuals have access to the same books that you do? So if they took the time to read and apply themselves, they would know all of the factors to consider and could make informed decisions when creating their potion.”

“But they don’t! Most of the students here barely read the required materials!”

“And that is exactly,” Tom stated, looking down at her, “why you shouldn’t care. Of course most of the world is full of fumbling idiots who consume themselves with cheap pursuits of instant gratification, and who do not understand the importance of education. But that is not something that you will be able to change.”

Hermione scowled, looking down at her hands. She knew she shouldn’t still be talking with him about this- he was a berk, he really was- but she had very rarely in the last eight years of her life come across the opportunity to have this discussion. Or to discuss the merits of certain books in general. As much as she hated to assign over-generalizations, there was something to be said about the common behavior of certain houses as it pertains to studying and discussing said studies with her. Gryffindors in general did not do above the minimum, and treated her inquiries as an unpleasant disruption to their attempts to pretend they didn’t have to do work. Ravenclaws were so displeased with her success that they snubbed all of her attempts to converse. Hufflepuffs worked hard to complete their assignments and study before an exam, but they typically did not look above and beyond the required material. And Slytherins refused to associate with her, aside from a couple of notable discussions in the library in the form of testy whispers with one Theodore Nott.

She sighed in defeat and continued. “I do not, at all, understand them. And it is not as if this information has no use to them now or in the future; why wouldn’t they want to better prepare themselves against threats? Or enable themselves to become more self-sufficient? Or to be considered useful enough to be put in positions of power where they would be able to enact change?”

Tom was quietly assessing. “I suspect you were missorted.”

Hermione couldn’t stop the smile. “I’ve considered it, but I could never collect knowledge for its own sake. I want to be able to use it. Even I have subjects that I avoid simply because I think they are useless.”

“Such as?”

Hermione grimaced just thinking about it. “Divination. A more useless subject was never to be had.”

Tom frowned. “Divination is perfectly respectable. There are centuries of successful precedent when using crystal balls, palmistry, numerology, tarot cards, or reading tea leaves… And there are genuine Seers about who make valid prophesies.”

Hermione snarled, quite against her will. “Stupid fucking prophesies. If I am never the unfortunate recipient of such a needlessly anxiety-ridden waste of magic, I can die content.”

“You don’t believe in the legitimacy of prophesies?” Tom looked disturbed at the possibility.

“It is self-fulfilling overly indulgent _drivel_ that seems to contain a disproportionate amount of tragedy. No, thank you.”

Tom’s eyebrow raised.

He opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Professor Slughorn, who had entered the library and headed over to their table.

“Hello Mr. Riddle! Miss Granger!” They both looked over at their Potions Professor as he stopped in front of them. “Miss Granger, I wanted to let you know that you should be able to access some of the castle’s decorating supplies for the upcoming party. The Deputy Head should be able to tell you more about how to attain what you need.”

He turned to Tom. “Mr. Riddle, if I could talk to you in private?”

Hermione took that as her cue to leave, and sent the magazine back to their shelf with a flick of her wand. “Thank you Professor, I’ll be on my way.” She walked down the aisle, and then hid behind a bookcase. How could she resist?

She heard Slughorn bring Tom aside. “Now Tom, I know you have been attempting to dissuade Miss Granger from her affections, but you need to be conscientious of your own behavior. It is probably not going to help anything if you continue to talk together so casually in the library.”

Tom’s tone was imploring. “But sir, she had a book that I needed to review for your Potions essay?”

Slughorn sighed. “Females are rather excitable creatures, Tom. And are easily encouraged. Who knows what she is thinking right now? You need to be firm with her. Take her in hand, and let her know exactly where she stands.”

“Of course, sir.”

Hermione’s hands curled, and she hissed, infuriated. Of course us poor, hysteric, easily encouraged females need to be guided by a man. It’s not as if we are capable of thinking for ourselves, or about things other than dalliances, marriage, and babies. Merlin’s hairy scrotum.

 

* * *

Hermione was ready to _strangle_ that dark-haired, devious sycophant of a Dark Lord, she really was.

She fantasized about it as she headed out of Professor Dumbledore’s office, having just been informed by the Deputy Head that she could only get access to decorating supplies through the Head Boy or Head Girl. And unfortunately the Head Girl was currently away visiting an ill mother. And of course Tom hadn’t feel the need to inform her while they were sitting together in the library.

So, full of frustration from running needlessly around the castle, and remembering Professor Slughorn’s casual misogynistic attitude, Hermione was close to seething. But this was helping. She could practically feel her fingers pressed into his trachea, her nails gripping the skin hard enough drops of blood began to fall, his gasping breaths…

Her fantasy was cut short when she saw the real Tom emerge from the other end of the hallway. He met her gaze with a triumphant smirk, and Hermione did her best to think about his death at her hands as loudly as possible. He was a Legilimens, right? So he should be able to read her thoughts? She imagined his skin tearing, her fingers dripping with his blood, the surprise and fear twisting his stupid, strangled face as he croaked uselessly…

She expected Tom to react negatively to the image. To snarl, or make more vague threats about the wellbeing of her person. Instead his eyes _burned_ in what she was horrified to discover might be interest. Why? From every account that she had heard, he certainly had sadistic tendencies, but he was no masochist…

Hermione resolved herself and finished the fantasy. His body going limp in her hands, his eyes blank as the life left… She had seen enough people die to know what it looked like. Had killed enough people to be sure. She watched as his gaze turned dark and more intense, if that were possible, and she felt… something. Some joined feeling of something, almost painful in her chest in its intensity. She took a staggered breath and saw Tom do the same.

This was quickly getting out of hand. The loss of control made her skittish, and she darted behind a curtain before striding around a corner. Took a deep breath.

What was that? If she had had any experience with this sort of thing she might have attributed it to animal magnetism, but that had never really happened to her before. She wasn’t the type of person to be intensely attracted to… anyone, really (her regrettable interest in her ginger-haired friend aside, but even that was nothing like _this_ ). Was it the violence of the scene? She wouldn’t be surprised if Riddle was the type to get off on violence, but what about her?

Quite possibly, now that she thought about it. She remembered trying to convince herself that kissing Ron during the final battle had been due to the adrenaline of the situation, or relief after destroying Riddle’s horcrux, but she couldn’t deny how… excited she had been. To see the physical results of her magic, witness her power and control… Magic still marveled her, but there was this tiny, persistent voice in the back of her head that told her this might all be a dream. That she might wake up to discover she was studying for her A-levels. Or worse, that she was somehow not good enough to be a witch, that all of the recrimination she received from other people was justified. But to feel that power?

Or maybe it was their magic? She had heard stories of magical compatibility before, but she had always assumed the accounts were over-exaggerated.

Well, this encounter proved to be interesting for several reasons. One, she had confirmed Riddle’s use of Legilimency. As long as she could remember to remain cognizant of the fact, she could use it to her advantage. In the mean-time she would do her best to avoid needless direct eye-contact.

Two, she had discovered that she couldn’t be as carefree with her approach to him as she might have liked. Not because she was afraid of what he might do to her, but because she was scared of her own response. She was not at all happy to discover that she was that attracted to the young Dark Wizard, but that did not mean she had to be stupid about it.

And third, she had more research to do to discover the root cause of this… physical disturbance.

She could use a distraction. If anything it made her anticipate her plans regarding Avery that much more.

* * *

**To be continued….**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up by tomorrow. Hope you enjoy.


	3. Hermione Attends a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione hates parties.

**Chapter 3: Hermione Attends a Party**

* * *

 

 

Hermione could not stop herself from trying to perfect these goddamn decorations to the best of her ability. Now that she was actually doing it, she couldn't make herself half-arse the attempt. Which frustrated and exasperated her. After all, it is not as if there would be serious repercussions if she failed. She was finally mature enough to acknowledge that there was life beyond school, and demonstrating poor taste in the color of napkins and tablecloths would hardly bar her entry into an occupation.

She could just imagine the interview. 'You see Miss Granger, these NEWT scores are commendable, to be sure, but I see here that you thought green and yellow were somehow compatible when planning a soiree. I'm afraid we expect our incoming interns to demonstrate a certain level of taste...'

She was amused until she realized that she was living in the 40s. Who knew what employer's expectations were for a woman entering the workforce. The possibilities ate at her nerves as she considered the reality of attempting to establish herself in a misogynistic society. Her panic grew, pushed by her ignorance and lack of planning, to the point where she could feel herself starting to breathe fast enough to make her head spin...

Stop, she told herself forcefully.

One step at a time. Decorations now. Potential panic attack due to the consequences of never returning home later.

Having previously attended a Slughorn party, she knew the setting to be an intimate affair (as far as parties go). She then knew that her first step would be attempting to emulate that exclusionary, sophisticated aspect of the event, but with none of the romanticism typically exuded in such an intimate setting.

The color would play an important role in determining that difference. She decided to go with purple and white. Understated but elegant, and a statement that she refused to play into House politics. Heavily influenced by her cousin's wedding, but who would know?

She draped the ceiling and walls in a gauzy white, which she transfigured from a set of rather unfortunate floral tartans. (No offense to Professor McGonagall and her… tastes. Although exposure to Umbridge's obsession with lace dollies and pink suede made carpeted tartan strangely palatable). She enchanted strings of light to extend from the middle of the room, which exuded a warm golden glow that offset the white of her makeshift tent and illuminated the concessions table as the brightest place in the hall. Said table was organized to accommodate various beverages (pumpkin juice and cider) and finger-foods (mostly desserts, in the form of various cookies, bars, and cakes), as well as a large flower arrangement.

Tables were positioned evenly on one side of the room, and the other side was organized similar to her living room. Several plush dark brown couches, chairs, loveseats, and side tables lined the wall, with plenty of room in the middle for conversation and dancing. All of the wood furniture and wood flooring was stained a dark espresso. The tablecloths and napkins were white, which appeared muted under the golden lights. The centerpiece at every table included a bouquet of flowers lined with fern, in combinations of whites, lilacs, and deeper purples.

The meanings of the flowers were intended to be a secret joke. Hermione's subtle attempts to insult her not-so-favorite Dark-lord Wannabe. White amaranth for immortality paired with lavender for failure. Black calla lilies and burgundy dahlias for a sense of elegance and mystery paired with white geraniums for stupidity and folly. Polar night rhododendrons for caution and danger. Deep purple anemones, meaning forsaken, paired with white roses for secrecy and silence. Double white begonia for beware, dark purple carnations for capriciousness, lavender heather for solitude, white marigolds for cruelty and jealousy, white oleanders for caution…

And then, of course, fern for magic.

She wondered if anyone would notice how many of the flowers she chose were poisonous. The thought made her smile.

It took far too much time to actually get a hold of all of the varieties, (the Hogwarts greenhouse did not contain all of the assortments she wanted, so she had to contact someone in Hogsmeade), but what started as a whim for shits and giggles turned into equal parts hassle and fun. She was oh so curious if dear Tom would notice.

 

* * *

 

Professor Slughorn was clearly taken aback when he saw her decorations. Hermione could see his fumbling attempt to be diplomatic. "It's… nice."

Hermione was proud of her efforts, and couldn't help but feel deflated at the lackluster response. She shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, it is hardly as if she has spent a lot of time familiarizing herself with the appropriateness of decorations at various venues. She cursed herself for being so stupid even as she sent him a fake smile. "The party isn't until tomorrow. If this is not to your liking, you have all of tomorrow to find someone else to change it for you."

He shook his head minutely, and then peered around as if attempting to pinpoint exactly where the display went wrong. "If this had been springtime, it would have been perfect. It is autumn, however. I was expecting to see a little more... orange."

Why couldn't he have told her about some of his expectations when he gave her this assignment?

Hermione was tired. "Professor Slughorn. I did not request to aid you on this endeavor. I was volunteered for it quite against my will. In addition, I know very little about decorating, especially as it pertains to emulating the appropriateness of various social events. I tried my best. I apologize if that does not meet your expectations."

There was a pause. And then, "Why did you not tell me this beforehand?" Professor Slughorn blinked at her.

Why didn't she? Because she didn't know how to tell him? Because she was afraid of being thought incapable? Or maybe because she didn't want to lose. Not to  _him_. Not that she voiced her suspicions.

Professor Slughorn seemed to pick up on them all the same, and gave her a side look that she couldn't read. Hermione was struck for the first time that the man was actually rather intelligent. It was difficult for her to acknowledge before, simply because she was so attuned to the obvious intelligence of her former Potions professor, who used his brilliance starkly and unapologetically (her mental musings provided the image of a whip- an intellect that was quick, loud, and catered to maim).

Hermione audibly sighed. She was too stubborn to admit defeat after such a statement. "Well how about this?" She took out her wand and colored the flowers more to his liking. White amaranth became a deep red, and the lilies became orange lined with pink. The white roses became a burnt orange, and the marigolds variations of orange and red. The oleander became a blood red color, geraniums red streaked with yellow, the begonia a light orange. She then darkened the lavender and conjured various dark green leaves, brown branches and crimson red berries to branch around the display.

This arrangement was much more dramatic. The deep purples and bright oranges stood in a sharp contrast, but was nicely offset by the dark red. To finish, she flicked the curtains gold, changed the glow from the ropes of light from a white gold into more of a soft orange, and then conjured small arrangements of colored candles besides the flowers. Lighting them, the tables emitted their own soft, orange glow.

Personally, this combination appealed to her less (she preferred understated decorations), but Professor Slughorn clapped his hands in an exuberant manner. "Delightful, my dear! And you said you were incapable… such modesty."

Hermione's smile felt pinched as she attempted to mentally calculate whether the meaning of her flowers would change. The orange roses, she realized after a moment, which now entailed enthusiasm and passion. Which she could, unfortunately, still actualize to their esteemed head boy. And together… forsaken passion fit quite well, now that she thought about it. Huh.

Suddenly she felt much better about the whole thing.

"Well then, Miss Granger! I look forward to seeing you here tomorrow evening!"

Hermione tried not to frown. Now to transfigure a dress… and she had no idea what would be acceptable. Which would entail another trip to investigate fashion in the library.

Fuck her life.

 

* * *

 

If Hermione never again had to think about decorating, it would be too soon. And she was absolutely serious. If this stupid venture had taught her anything, it was that fashion was ridiculous.

Case in point.

"Horace, where did get these decorations! So bold! Orange and purple together can so easily turn garish, but bravo, my good man. Somehow elegant  _and_  audacious… this looks like a statement!"

"My dear professor, I can't help but notice that half these flowers are poisonous! A subtle nod to your craft, no doubt. Absolutely clever."

"Horace, where did you get the idea to drape the ceiling and walls! Like being inside of a tent,  _indoors_. Such a fun idea. Reminds me of the last time we attended the World Cup. Do you know I bumped into Veronica just last week? Remember her? Or maybe her…  _attributes_?"

It was at this point that Hermione wandered away from her Professor, not  _at all_  wanting to hear anything about Veronica's attributes. She headed blindly for the concession table, and unwittingly confronted Tom Riddle and his enthusiastic date. She bit back a growl, already fed up with the evening, and gave the pair a strained smile that bordered a sneer as she inched towards the cider.

As she moved, she admitted to feeling somewhat surprised to recognize her dear housemate as his date. Lilac White. She just seemed so  _lackluster_  compared to Tom. A gossip, to be sure, but hardly cruel. Or creative. Or intelligent. Although wealthy…

Hermione forcibly stopped her line of thinking. She didn't care. Tom could fuck or date whomever he wanted. She really didn't give a shit. She finally managed to grab a cup of cider, and was more than ready to make her retreat.

Or course Tom wasn't about to let her go without insulting her first.

"Well, look who it is. The woman of the hour. I have been hearing nothing but praise for your decorations. I am sure you are relieved to hear that your primary assets as a woman have been affirmed. Now you aren't  _completely_  undesirable."

Hermione was unbelievably offended, which was no doubt his intention. So she responded with sarcasm. She wondered, offhand, whether or not she could be subtle enough to go over little Lilac's head. "Oh, you have no idea. I was absolutely terrified at the prospect of never finding a husband. Where would I get my life's fulfillment if not through marriage and child-rearing? Merlin forbid I be forced to find my purpose through willful employment."

She struck gold. Lilac gasped dramatically. "You mean  _work_? How perfectly dreadful."

Hermione made an over-exaggerated expression of commiseration. "Oh, absolutely. All of that unnecessary effort, and to what end? I am hardly equipped to contribute in such a setting, let alone make my own decisions."

Lilac smiled at her as if she had finally found something to like, and Hermione had to fight the urge to grimace in distaste. "That is so true. After all, it is the role of a woman to support her man so that he may accomplish all of his endeavors. And they are kind enough to guide us in return."

Hermione almost broke. She could feel it in her face, which twitched like she was glitching. It was just so absurd. Her tone was a tad sharper as a result. "How kind of them to… liberate us from the burden of independence and progression."

Lilac, the poor fool, remained completely oblivious, and nodded enthusiastically. "We are simply better suited to different things. After all, we could hardly expect a man to cook dinner or manage the household." She tittered a boisterous laugh, clearly finding the idea hilarious.

Already tired and fed up, Hermione found the noise obnoxious, and she couldn't stop herself from turning to Tom in disbelief. She raised a brow, thinking 'How can you stand this?' Tom just looked very amused.

And then he was smirking. "Isn't Lilac great? Such a firm understanding of where she belongs. You would do well emulate such an example. Attractive behavior could make up for your… lack of other attributes."

There was that stupid fucking word again. The objectification was clear, and Hermione inwardly bristled. She was a person, for fuck's sake, not a hole to be filled or a doll to be admired. "More's the pity. I suppose I will never marry. After all, well-behaved women seldom make history, and I don't intend to accept obscurity."

Tom laughed that familiar chuckle of chauvinistic disbelief. " _You_  intend to make history?"

"Scared, Riddle? That I might become more noteworthy than you?"

"Impossible," was his immediate dismissal, and Hermione had to stop herself from scowling in return. However, the negative feelings persevered.

It was at this point in the evening that Hermione couldn't stop herself from imagining his death again. Regardless of the fact that she had promised herself not to. Should such an exercise be so cathartic? Probably not, but that didn't stop her from indulging. She mentally pictured discreetly poisoning his drink with many of the poisonous flower varieties available at the table. Him drinking it, and then going into anaphylactic shock… eyes bulging, body convulsing, clawing uselessly at his swollen neck as a foamy saliva dribbled down his cheeks... She felt better, calmer. Tom stared at her intensely, obviously interested in her fantasies, and familiar heat began to build between them.

They were interrupted, and Hermione was somewhat surprised to hear Lilac defend her. "Tom! It is hardly becoming behavior to mention such truths in present company."

Lilac took in her appearance, looking her up and down with a critical eye. Hermione had been aiming for elegant- a dusty rose dress with lace capped sleeves and back, a sweetheart neckline forming a satin bustier, and then floor-length gauze pleated, spilling… her hair was pulled back from her face in a simple bun, and she wore dangly earrings. It was understated. Especially compared to the many outfits Hermione had witnessed that night. A subtle nod at the size of her breasts and waist, while still preserving her modesty, it drew attention to her slender neck and wrists.

Apparently her efforts were too subtle and too simple for Lilac White. Who clearly thought that making history meant marrying someone important. "You may be a bit plain to catch the eye of somewhat noteworthy. But that shouldn't stop you from attempting to marry. Perhaps you shouldn't be so ambitious?"

Tom nodded in agreement, although Hermione suspected it was a nod to his own internal musings rather than Lilac's statement. "It does seem a rather odd trait for a Gryffindor."

Lilac spun towards Tom as if he had just reaffirmed her own genius. "Doesn't it? I thought so too. Always studying in the library… I think Ravenclaw would be far more appropriate."

Tom gave Lilac an assessing gaze. "Not Slytherin?"

Lilac gave him what she clearly thought was a clever smile, and then moved towards the flower arrangement on the table. She met Hermione's eye. "If she was more suited to Slytherin, she would have looked up the meanings of these flowers before creating the bouquets. Do you know three of these varieties mean caution and beware? Of course the marigolds stand for grief, or cruelty and jealousy… And the pairings are so inappropriate. Elegance and mystery," she fingered the dahlia, "with stupidity and folly. Immortality and either failure or caution, which doesn't make any sense."

Tom's eyes darkened.

Lilac continued. "The forsaken passion is the only one that I can reasonably picture, but I'm sure it was an accident." The girl gave Hermione a smile full of pity.

Maybe Hermione had misjudged the girl. Clearly she had some bite. Her mind conjured the image of a kitten, growling and clawing, trying to make herself more ferocious than she actually was. How adorable.

Tom's eyes swung towards her, vicious and abrupt and full of caution. "Was it a mistake, Granger?"

There was that cue again. To smile insipidly, to play dumb, to do anything  _but_  disagree with that assessment. And Hermione couldn't stop herself from stirring the pot. She wondered belatedly if  _she_  might be the masochist. Her smile dropped. "Of course not. But obviously too subtle for the recipient to figure out on his own. My expectations were too high. How disappointing."

Hermione downed her drink, and gave the two people in front of her a short wave as she planned a tactical retreat. Tom's gaze was penetrating and foreboding, and dark with potential consequences. Lilac was confused. Hermione didn't have the patience. "À la prochaine."

Breathe.

Hermione attempted to mentally rally herself as she walked away. Don't think about Tom, or what he might do to you now that he thinks you might be onto him. Think about building a future for yourself in the event that this stupid castle won't let you go home. And to that aim, Hermione turned towards networking, naturally attracted to the idea of catching the attention of intellectuals and budding politicians. Apparently, all she had was her intellect. Better start with that.

Hermione turned, and then attempted to track down that potions master she had spoken to earlier in the evening. His assertions were interesting, of course, but he clearly hadn't considered magical contamination when using Muggle varieties. It wouldn't hurt to inform him.

She  _would_  be noticed.

 

* * *

 

Later that night Hermione enacted her small revenge plot. Moaning Myrtle was on board as soon as she heard the identity of the recipient ("What, that stupid tosser? Of course I'll help. He once tried to push me down a flight of stairs, you know." Hermione had nodded. "What a prat."). In fact, the ghost was almost uncomfortably eager to spend time in her company ("No one ever bothers to visit anymore. I think I make them uncomfortable. Because they  _knew_  me, you know? I remind them of how easy it is to die.").

It was fairly simple (Hermione had learned through experience that the more complicated the plan, the easier it was for something to go wrong). She would conjure a snake, and Moaning Myrtle would lead the thing through the pipes and into the bathroom connected to the seventh year boys dormitory. The ghost would give a signal (force toilet water to launch in a projectile, which Hermione stayed far away from), and then Hermione would trigger another spell that caused the snakes to duplicate endlessly, until the original snake was disposed of.

Myrtle then was to act as her eyes, in order to ascertain that her plan was going off without any problems.

It seemed that it worked.

The ghost came back laughing, pitched to sound almost maniacal. "Morgana's saggy tits, Avery screamed like a girl. And he just… kept screaming. Scrambled up on his bed and bat the snakes away with pillows. Stupid arse forgot he was a wizard."

"How long did the snakes last?"

Myrtle grinned. "They're still there. I think the original hid under the bed. Eventually the boys ran out of the room and hid behind the door."

Hermione's eyes widened, even as her lips peeled back in an unholy grin. She tried to imagine how many snakes could fit inside the room in the few hours before the conjuration disappeared. "Oh my."

Now all she had to do was wait to hear about the fallout. She couldn't wait.

Hermione went to bed a happy witch.

 

* * *

**To be continued...**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope my attempts at humor prove amusing! Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!


	4. Hermione Has a Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is aggravated by many people.

**Chapter 4: Hermione Has a Bad Day**

* * *

 

Hermione was feeling bloodthirsty. She’d spent at least ten seconds trying to determine whether or not that was an over-exaggeration, but no. There really was no other word for it. Relishing in the full fury of her emotions, she realized that any inclinations she’d had towards murdering Tom the week previous was mere child’s play in comparison.

And the reasons for these feelings? Well, there were a few.

Firstly, she had woken up to find that someone had felt it necessary to cover her newly attained wardrobe in some disgusting coagulating mixture of wet dirt and blood. The amount of blood was unfortunate- the lumps looked like clots, and Hermione lost herself for a few moments in a flashback of the war, watching the blood gurgle out of a little Hufflepuff in shock. Then came the remnants of anxiety, creating an edge she recognized as the start of a panic attack... Hermione forced herself to breathe evenly as she directing all of that unspoken tension towards anger.

The reference was obvious, but all Hermione could think looking at the ruined clothes was, fucking really? Why?

Perhaps she had been overestimating her success rallying the Gryffindors behind her.

She summoned a house elf and requested aid, but she wasn’t expecting much. Perhaps the black robes could be salvaged, but her white nightgown? The white button down shirts that were a requisite part of her uniform? She had enough experience with blood to know that the substance was staining.

Where had they even gotten it? Was it real? Did she really want to know?

She decided that yes, in fact, she did. If only to adequately ascertain the depths to their depravity, and to gain a clue in locating the perpetrator. To that end, Hermione made sure to collect a sample before the mess disappeared. She would figure out what to do with that later- she knew at least three potions off the top of her head that could help her determine the contents.

Obviously unsettled, Hermione forced herself to stop and think rationally. Luckily, she had set out her school uniform last night in preparation for her early morning ablutions, so she would have something to wear. She remembered her formulated response to bullying while she was getting ready, and stayed true to form upon exiting. Heading into the common room, Hermione liked to think that she was the very image of sophisticated grace, with that _charming_ sparkle of cool insouciance.

In reality, she probably just looked apathetic, but a girl can dream. She remembered hearing somewhere that presentation was half of any success, and what was presentation but nicely packaged confidence?

Of course, it was somewhat difficult to keep said confidence in the midst of derogatory giggles, but Hermione didn’t waste her time feeling embarrassed and isolated. She used the experience as an opportunity to see who were acting like tittering idiots, and added them to a mental list of possible perpetrators/accomplices.

Striding across the room, Hermione realized she was emulating Severus Snape to some extent, and decided to enact a full reproduction. Goddamn, sweeping through the door with obvious disregard felt good. No wonder the man did it all the time.

Her second reason for the sudden depression in her mood caught her as she was just reaching the Main Hall.

“Miss Granger! What a pleasant coincidence! I have been meaning to speak with you!”

No sane man would sound so cheery this early in the morning.

Tired grumblings aside, Hermione had been expecting to hear from the man ever since she let loose in the common room the fact that she was from the future, and gave the Deputy Headmaster a cautious smile. “Good morning Professor Dumbledore. What can I do for you?”

“Perhaps this conversation would be more appropriate in my office?”

And with that, Hermione missed her opportunity to eat breakfast.

It was not the conversation she had been expecting. And she was surprised by how sufficient she had gotten at understanding everything he didn’t say.

“So, Miss Granger, you have been here for several weeks. I am sure that has given you enough time to gauge the level of difficulty in your classes.” In other words, I suspect now is the opportune time for you to drop your ambitious act and take on a more manageable workload, and I am giving you the chance to do so without damaging your pride.

“I understand that you were attempting a large course load in your timeline, but I am sure you are now aware that our standard of excellence is unmatched.” Our classes are more difficult, with the slight insinuation that they were dumbed down in your timeline to accommodate for the underwhelming scholastic achievement of participating females.

“If you are simply looking to fill your time, I can direct you to several female student groups and organizations that practice things such as home economics and interior decorating.” Even if you were capable, your interest in subjects such as Arithmancy and Ancient Runes will not serve your future. Here are more constructive and socially appropriate avenues with which to spend your time.

“I have heard about your recent success decorating Horace’s recent party, and I am sure their group would be delighted to include you.” You must already be interested in the subject to have participated in the planning of a social event. So dropping your classes wouldn’t really be a knock on your pride, because you could celebrate your recent accomplishments with like-minded peers.

Hermione stopped him before he could continue. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Professor. What prompted this visit? Do you have a reason to believe I am performing inadequately in my classes?”

The Deputy Headmaster gave her a long look. “It has come to my attention that you recently told some of your classmates that you were from the future.” There it was. “As Head of Gryffindor I have been able to quell the rumors to some extent, but… I am rather concerned about your mental health.”

What?

“This is clearly an indication of hysteria influenced delirium brought on by undue mental stress. So I brought you in here in the hopes that reducing your work load would help you manage your stress and prevent such… episodes from occurring in the future.”

Hermione was not stupid. This tangent simply meant, I am displeased that you did not listen to my earlier warnings, so I am holding leverage of something important over you in order to control your future behavior.

Son of a bitch.

But Hermione would make this work for _her_. She refused to act as one of his pawns.

“I had never considered that Professor. I was actually under the impression that any _episodes_ I have suffered from were as a result of boredom, rather than stress. After all, idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Perhaps, as my Head of House, you would be willing to show me a list of all of the extracurricular activities currently offered at the school? I admit to being rather partial towards dueling, but I am not afraid to try new things. Is there a club catered towards potions experimentation?”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed with annoyance, and then his face was full of false consolation. “I’m afraid that our only dueling club is for men only…”

“Why?”

“Miss Granger, I understand that circumstances may be hard for you to accept, but you are still expected to maintain a level of decorum. Dueling is not a sport considered appropriate for women to participate in, as you would well know if you had bothered to do any research about the subject.”

Solid burn. Of course she had, but let it be known that Albus Percival Something Something Something Dumbledore is a presumptuous ass.

“I see. So how are women supposed to be able to protect themselves in wartime? If my abilities were the only thing standing between the death of my child and a threat like Grindenwald, why would I not do my utmost to become proficient?”

Dumbledore’s smile was empty. “That is why we employ Aurors. To protect us from the threats posed by dark wizards.”

“If Aurors were enough protection, then there wouldn’t be a threat. But some dark wizards are more difficult to contain.”

Dumbledore stared at her in quiet disbelief. “You believe that participating in a dueling club will give you the skills necessary to protect yourself against the strongest dark wizards alive? You certainly put a lot into the idea. I am not sure whether to be flattered that you think our curriculum that strong, or concerned that I actually need to get your head examined.”

Hermione pursed her lips. Of course he would twist her words and ignore the unstated implications. “I would just like the opportunity to know how to protect myself.” She had an idea. “There is a dueling competition coming up soon, right? If I place, would you consider it? If only to put my time and talent to better use.”

The Deputy Headmaster frowned. “I will consider broaching the subject with the Headmaster. In the meantime, your workload?”

Hermione straightened, feeling bitter. “Perhaps if I can demonstrate the ability to handle my current workload until the end of the semester without any further problems, we can consider me capable of dealing with the stress?” In other words, a probation period, in which she agreed not to mention anything about the future. The fact that he manipulated her into suggesting it made her want to grind her teeth, remembered lectures from her parents aside.

“I suppose that is a compromise I can agree on.” As if he didn’t have all of the cards. Arsehole.

He led her to the door. “I believe you have Herbology next? You better hurry. I would hate to hear reports of a decline in your performance due to tardiness.” In other words, I am not feeling magnanimous enough to give you a pass after taking up your entire breakfast and passing period. Run, bitch, run.

The fucker.

Hermione ended up being late to Herbology, even after she arrived panting and sweating, and had to stay after class to listen to a lecture about the importance of time management. She saw Tom give her an overstated look of false concern, and the indignation almost made her vibrate from frustration.

But lunch was coming, and she would have the opportunity to cool down and binge on something sweet. Just one more class. She could practically imagine the loaded table, and decided that she might actually kill someone for a brownie.

It was not to be. Headmaster Dippet stopped her just as she was about to sit down, “Miss Granger! I hear you have something to discuss with me. Something about the dueling competition?”

The very first thing that popped into her head was, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Now?’

She mentally cursed every deity she could remember because this was not a conversation she could skip out of if she intended to get what she wanted. She reached longingly for one of the chocolate desserts before grimly accepting her fate.

So she nodded, and the Headmaster led her up the many staircases that led to his office.

Thus, reason number three for her building aggravation.

“So I heard you wanted to join the dueling club?”

“That’s right, sir. The Deputy Headmaster mentioned that Hogwarts is not only renowned for its scholastic excellence, but also for the extracurricular opportunities available to students hoping to network and hone their skills. I am interested in other clubs as well, of course, but I have always enjoyed a good duel.” It couldn’t hurt to flatter the man through the institution’s reputation, right?

“You are aware that it is not co-ed? After all, the club exists as a constructive way for some of the young men participating to let off some steam, and it would not be fair to require them to make any allowances.”

Hermione smiled genially. “I understand perfectly. Which is why I suggested to Professor Dumbledore the possibility of engaging in a trial run. I could participate in the upcoming dueling competition, which would serve as an indicator of my proficiency. In the event that I place, would you consider allowing me the right to join?”

Headmaster Dippet gave her a measuring glance. “This is less about my allowance, and more about their surefire rejection of your membership application. You can use the competition as an opportunity to change their minds, of course, but please do not continue this nagging in the event that they turn you away.”

And there was the misogyny. She almost missed it. Nagging? Fucking really? It’s not as if she personally badgered him for his time. If anything, he commandeered hers.

Biting back an automatic insult, Hermione nodded. “Might I ask who in the group is responsible for accepting applications?”

“Why, the president of course.”

Hermione felt a wash of dread run through her, and mentally admonished herself for feeling so paranoid. “And who might that be?”

The headmaster smiled, but it did not look like a nice smile. “The head boy, Tom Riddle.”

Of fucking course it would be him. She should have trusted her instincts.

Hermione smiled blandly in return, simmering from the injustice. “It appears, then, that I need to make a good impression.”

                               

* * *

 

 

After Hermione participated in a cathartic exercise picturing the many ways she could break Riddle’s bones using objects immediately in her vicinity, she was able to control her breathing.

Hermione’s first inclination was to go to the library and finally research whatever was happening between the head boy and herself. She had already waited too long, and there was too much at stake between them. Logic told her that she needed to be the one to uncover the circumstances first, because if he did, he would surely use it as leverage over her.

Once she had decided on a course of action, she was anxiously eager to carry it out, but Hermione had two electives to sit through first. And she wasn’t feeling particularly patient. Her Arithmancy professor looked at her oddly after she failed to raise her hand for the third time that class period, but Hermione ignored her.

Tom leaned forward on his desk from behind her, and whispered, “Have you given up already?”

Why was he _always_ there?

Hermione ignored him too, feeling some strange mixture of anger and edgy anxiety, and bolted from the room as soon as the period ended.

It didn’t take her long to locate the books she thought might be helpful. _The Magic of Instant Connections_ , _Unspoken Pacts and Other Magic: Holding People Together_ , _A Detailed Enquiry into Magical Bonds_ , _Accidental or Intentional: The Realities of Bonding,_ a dubious looking _Magical Reciprocity,_ and a couple of other relevant looking texts. The fact that half of these books had pictures on the cover demonstrating a couple embraced in apparent rapture did nothing to calm her nerves, but she pushed forward regardless.

Apparently her apprehension was merited. The smallest remnants of her optimism that had somehow survived her day thus far shriveled as she continued to read. Let it be known that the adage ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ is shit, as the reading material was just as inane as she feared.

“ _Did you feel that certain spark with a special someone? Are you eager to discovery whether or not this could indicate something deeper? Turn to page 48 and answer a small questionnaire in order to determine whether or not you’ve found something magical_.”

“ _Mr. and Mrs. Rogers met over forty years ago, and are still madly in love. Interested researchers have visited the couple to determine whether or not the longevity of this connection could be contributed to the presence of a soulmate bond. When no such bond was found, interested parties began to dissect the wording in their marriage vows, attempting to determine whether magic has interceded and ensured a lasting connection…”_

“ _There are five primary accelerating factors that characterize the possibility of instant connection. Vulnerability, physical proximity, resonance, similarity, and environment. Shared experiences and physical distances create a sense of community that can serve as a source of similarity, which in turn creates a sense of inclusion that can help to foster intimacy. Likewise, paying attention_ …”

It was psychological drabble that attempted to understand the reason behind the formation of social relationships using a reductionist model that included needless buzzwords and didn’t actually impart any new information. Of course people with shared interests attract. Hardly a revelation.

Then she finally found… something.

“ _Magical compatibility and its consequences has been of great interest to witches and wizards for centuries. Varying research methodologies have been adapted in order to ascertain the strength of said compatibility, but the larger magical community has raised concerns over the validity of such studies due to issues with accuracy and reciprocity. Furthermore, it is difficult to determine when, exactly, magical compatibility is at play rather than interference from magical compulsions such as vows, bonds, and pacts._

_There are, however, a couple of key characteristics typically found in the magically compatible that are generally agreed upon by all interested parties. The individuals involved must demonstrate a high degree of magical aptitude, which in the untrained is often times demonstrated with the presence of large raw magical reserves. They must also have established a magical connection, which can entail anything from starting a vow or sharing blood, to performing joint casting exercises._

_It is noted that high degrees of magical compatibility have various consequences. The individuals involved are more inclined to experience other forms of compatibility in the form of emotional and physical connection. Bonded individuals with this compatibility typically demonstrate a higher level of empathy and are thus unusually protective and possessive of each other. And finally, they have established the possibility of sharing wands._

_Anyone interested in learning more should refer to Caster’s recent publication_ …”

She was interrupted by a grating voice close to her ear. “Miss Granger, I see that you have no less than eight books off the shelves. I will remind you, once again, that according to school policy your limit is four. Please do not make me repeat myself, or I may be forced to revoke your library privileges.”

Merlin forbid she have more than four books, because it’s not as if she is at all capable of putting them away after she is done with them… Her recrimination was all the worse because Hermione had spotted Tom last week with at least twelve texts, and the librarian had _smiled_.

Smiled! Where was the justice in that?

Bloody harpy. And now that her concerns have been addressed to some extent (although she would need to continue her research at a later time), she felt free to roll in the growing fury building in her chest. She flicked her wand in a defiant manner and watched the librarian purse her lips as all of the texts returned neatly to their place on the shelves.

The older woman turned her nose up at her and left, muttering something about, “Absolutely no care for the integrity of the binding…”

What did she do to warrant such discrimination? Hermione felt like she had been walking around all day with some kind of target on her back that everyone could see but her.

So what happened next really should not have surprised her. Like the heavens would show _her_ mercy… Although they did present a ready target with which to channel today’s culmination of homicidal tendencies.

Tom’s cronies decided to casually crowd her table. While she was somewhat reassured that they wouldn’t be able to get away with any kind of physical harassment, they seemed to feel confident enough to give the verbal variety a try, and threw themselves into the chairs across from hers.

Hermione had lost all of her patience by mid-morning, and addressed them as she saw fit. Which is to say with feral sarcasm. “Tommy’s boys! What a _pleasant_ surprise! What are you here for?”

They all narrowed their eyes at her in affront.

Avery was the first to recover, and leaned his chest against the table in front of her in an attempt to crowd her. Which was a surprise.

“You were the one to put snakes in the boy’s dormitory, weren’t you?” His eyes shifted between both of hers frenetically, and he positioned himself above her as if standing ready to catch any suspicious behavior.

Hermione’s brow raised. “Someone put snakes in the boys dormitory?”

Avery snarled. “Don’t play dumb, I know it was you. After all, you demonstrated that replicating charm in class so _perfectly_ …”

“Replicating snakes? Sounds like fun.”

“Fun? They were fucking poisonous.”

They weren’t, actually, Hermione wasn’t that stupid. Although she was hardly about to correct him.

“I see. Do you have any proof of my supposed culpability?”

“I just said…”

“Circumstantial at best, and a delusional suspicion at worse. Did you manage to cast a tracing spell?”

His eyes narrowed. “Worried?”

Hermione scoffed, irritation mounting. “Exasperated. Apparently you have no idea how to successfully implicate someone. What kind of Slytherin are you?”

Avery’s cheeks were turning red with anger. “What the fuck would you know…”

“Like an icky first year. I can’t imagine you are treated with any respect…”

Her cut her off, practically shouting. “You don’t know anything!”

At her look of aggravated skepticism, Avery calmed and sneered, “I wonder what your screams would sound like if I hit you with a Cruciatus.” His suggestion (because she really couldn’t call this cute attempt a threat) came across as almost lewd, highlighted by the movement of his fingers that came close to touching her collarbone. Once he noticed she was paying attention to the action, he drew them back with an overly disgusted look on his face, as if even touching her clothing was beyond consideration.

Hermione was _not_ impressed. The over-exaggeration just seemed so… childish. Really? What exactly was she supposed to be feeling right now? Intimidated? Ashamed? Overcome with self-hatred? ‘Well if _Avery_ doesn’t want to touch me, surely my life is over’… So fucking ridiculous.

“I wonder what your screams would sound like through a crushed windpipe.” Hermione made a point to look directly at the man’s Adam’s apple, and then back into his eyes.

They were not to be outdone.

Abby spoke up from beside her. “I wonder what your eyes would look like after the killing curse. The same muddy brown color of your blood? Or would they darken?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes in anger and exasperation at the insult, and decided to be as disgusting as possible. “I wonder how your eyeball would feel if I burst the mess in my fist after clawing it out of your head with my fingernails. Hm, Abby? Do you think the liquid would look bloody or watery oozing down my arm? Would it be warm?”

There was a visceral response to that description in nearly all of the young men around her, their faces scrunched for a moment in disgust.

Someone made another attempt, but Hermione cut them off with a sharp retort. “Please, your lack of creativity is almost painful. Although I have to ask. Who decided that the Unforgiveables were to be the staple of your repertoire as you all attempt to emulate wannabe Dark wizards? Where is your ingenuity? Your ambition? I thought you were Slytherins.”

It was at this point, of course, that Tom felt the need to interject himself in their conversation, stepping into her peripheral on her right. “Really, Granger? You feel you have some kind of authority on dark curses?”

Hermione felt a nerve of tension pinch the edge of her shoulders, and attempted nonchalance. Now was not the time for involuntary weakness. Now was the time for moxie. Regardless of the suspicions held between them. “The Unforgiveables are boring, Riddle. And predictable. Just like your lackeys.”

To her surprise, Tom grinned good-naturally. “Well, it is hard to find good help these days. Although I am curious. According to your undoubtedly high expectations, what would be an appropriate way to kill someone?”

He asks as if he had not just witnessed her homicidal impulses the week before.

And reminded Hermione of the fact that she was still feeling rather angry. Throwing away her apprehension, she decided to continue as she had been, embracing the true hallmark of entertainment indicative of her generation; shock value. “Have you heard of Lingchi? The ancient Chinese torture method where slivers of flesh are slowly shaved off bit by bit and cuts made so as to extend the torture as long as possible? Starting with the limbs, of course, which gradually led to amputation. Most died of blood loss before the torso and head could really be explored, but I imagine magic could help with that. Or salt, if I was feeling particularly inclined to embrace my _Mudblood heritage_.” She turned to look at Avery pointedly as she finished. The man looked disgusted.

Tom made a noise that brought her attention back to him. His gaze was considering. “That seems rather sadistic for a Gryffindor.”

Hermione’s smile was sharp, well aware that Gryffindors were just as capable of harm. But decided to play along. “You caught me on an off-day. I’m afraid all of my sugary noble sentiments of mercy and compassion were used up by Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” he asked curiously, his head tilted, obviously trying to remember if there was anything important about that particular day.

Hermione just nodded. “Tuesday. My housemates decided to throw a House party without inviting me. I was devastated, and decided to start living my life for revenge.”

His lips twitched in amusement, and Hermione inwardly smirked. Apparently her _assets_ could possibly include a sense of humor. Take that Lilac White.              

And then Hermione remembered she shouldn’t fucking care.

“I see.” He nonchalantly waltzed up next to her, and slide gracefully into the chair beside hers. Hermione was disgusted to notice that his impeccably coiled hair did this conventionally sexy swish thing from the momentum, before falling perfectly back in place. Damn that man.

And now that she was taking note, as he continued to speak Hermione became uncomfortably aware of his almost unnaturally straight white teeth, demonstrating, once again, an unparalleled standard of hygiene. Which should not be so attractive…

She stopped herself.

Hermione. Doll. You know I think we’ve got it going on, but stop looking at his fucking mouth. Pay attention.

“So I heard the most interesting rumor about you the other day. Something about you traveling backwards fifty years in time?”

Neither confirm nor deny. Not if she wanted to continue taking nine classes. Fucking Dumbledore. “I like to stir the pot.”

Tom snorted. “ _That_ I have definitely noticed.”

Just state Dumbledore’s facts. As unpleasant as they may be. Hermione let out a dramatic sigh. “I have recently been informed that I suffer from hysteria. Apparently, in my delirium caused by undue stress, I made accusations generally considered to be impossible. I apologize if you have been misled.”

Tom’s eyebrow raised. “Hysteria,” he stated dryly.

“Apparently.”

“And how often do these… episodes occur?”

How often does she mention or act on information of the future? “All the time, I imagine.” After all, she is a product of her times.

“Is sarcasm, then, somehow indicative of your over-excitability?”

She gave him a dead-pan expression. “Can’t you tell? I’m fit to burst.”

There was that slightly amused twitch in his lips again. Ha!

Tom paused for several moments, and then frowned, the movement pulling at all of his features. “You spoke to Dumbledore.”

Smart boy. Hermione blinked as she considered whether or not Tom and Dumbledore had experienced a similar conversation in the past. “I can neither confirm nor deny participating in said recent hypothetical meeting with our _esteemed_ Deputy Headmaster.” She may have sneered a bit towards the end. She couldn’t help it. It had been one of those days.

“What did he threaten you with?”

Hermione turned more fully towards Tom with a raised brow. What a loaded question. Like she would actually respond.

Tom smirked, picking up on the challenge. “It’s hardly a secret, Granger, considering your ambitions.”

She blinked.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, and she suspected that he was second-guessing himself. Then, apparently, he felt the need to change the trajectory of their conversation. “Let’s just assume, for argument’s sake, that you are from the future. Would you like to talk about the meaning behind your flower arrangements?”

Hermione could sense that things might get a bit messy, and cleared her mind of any potentially implicative thoughts. Her plan was to evade and misdirect.

“Was it the orange or purple that offended you?”

He gave her a look.

“Because I can empathize. I personally find orange rather distasteful. Should a color be so _blatant_? Although I suppose yellow isn’t much better.”

Tom sneered in exasperation. “Don’t play dumb.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed in response to his impatience. “I am only following your example. Why else would you ask these kind of questions in the _library_?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t willingly follow me somewhere more private. And that you would be less circumspect about discussing it, based on that dramatic display in your Common Room. Was I wrong?”

Evade and misdirect. She bat her eyelashes theatrically. “You want me alone? Sugar, you only had to ask.”

His eyes narrowed and he couldn’t stop a grimace. Brat. “I know what you are playing at.”

“Do you?”

“I just want to know how much _you_ know.”

“And after that you will walk away like we never had this conversation?”

“Potentially.”

Hermione snorted in disbelief.

“You picked immortality for a reason.”

“Did I?”

He leaned closer, and his voice became a harsh whisper. “I can make you talk.”

Hermione didn’t have the patience to cower. So she reciprocated, leaning forward so close she could smell his breath. She whispered coyly. “Can you?”

Tom snarled.

“Be careful, Tom. After all we are in public. By your own design.” Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, and Hermione smiled slyly. She pulled back from him casually. “Better wave at your girlfriend before she thinks you are ignoring her. She might feel the need to spread rumors about our dastardly affair.”

Tom frowned in confusion. “Who?”

“Lilac? Or was that date a one-off?”

His eyebrow raised. “Interested?”

“In the abuse I will undoubtedly have to suffer because of your romantic entanglements? Absolutely.”

Tom smirked. “Are they still bullying you? Poor _Hermione_.”

Hermione huffed tiredly and ran a hand through her hair. “It’s better that way. So when I finally enact my revenge, I won’t have to waste time on shit feelings like compassion and regret.”

Avery finally felt it necessary to intrude, ready to jump at the admission. “Have a lot of experience with revenge plots, do you?”

Hermione smirked, and impulsively decided to share. What’s the harm if they already thought she was crazy? “I once led a professor into a forest hoping she would be run through by centaurs, crushed by a giant, or eaten by acromantulas. Or if I had any luck, all three. Because she was using dark magic on my friends. Does that count?”

Tom looked skeptical. “You tried to kill a Professor, Granger? You?”

Hermione leaned forward and delivered this next bit in a conspiratorial whisper. “My first offense was as a first-year. I set my Potion’s professor on fire during a Quidditch game.”

Tom was still frowning, eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce whether or not she was lying. Abby spoke up then, having obviously decided that she was full of shit. “Really. And exactly how many of your professors have you attacked?”

Hermione’s eyes furrowed as she lifted her hand and started counting down her fingers. Well, Severus Snape, obviously. Remus Lupin, while the man was still a werewolf. Umbridge. Would the Carrow siblings count? Why not.

So five. But then she considered how many Harry had attacked, just out of curiosity. Quirrel, Lockhart, Lupin, Barty Crouch Jr., Umbridge, Snape, the Carrows. Which makes eight. Wow, they really took defiance against authority figures to whole new level, didn’t they?

“Only five,” she finally admitted, frowning.

Avery snorted. “ _Only_ five?”

Hermione pouted. “There were circumstances.”

Tom interjected, sounding impatient. “I’m sure. So tell me Granger. Are these snippets of the future, or is this an example of your hysteria?”

Considering she defined her hysteria _as_ sharing snippets of her future… “I’m definitely having an episode.”

“I saw them in your head, Granger.”

Shit, she had forgotten he was a Legilimens... Evade and misdirect. “Were you reading my mind? Naughty boy. It just so happens that I have a vivid imagination.”

Tom looked frustrated enough to pull his hair out, which gave Hermione a sense of unmitigated glee. She stopped herself from giggling manically, but apparently the mirth was apparent on her face. As a result, his features were cutting and his whisper was harsh. “I can take you where they can’t find you, and make you scream until you are willing to tell me everything.”

Hermione smiled coyly, deliberately misinterpreting his words. “Promise?”

There was that edge again, that impulsive, passionate, chaotic side of his personality that seemed to exude brashness and killing intent. For one moment it was almost overwhelming, and then….

And then his face cleared and he looked up at her with a calculating gaze, as if he had discovered a game-changer, and Hermione tensed with wariness.

He reached behind him and grabbed his book bag. Opened it, and withdrew a napkin. Her first thought was that it was some kind of dark magical artifact, but as he parted the napkin like a blossoming flower, Hermione stared in surprise. It was a scrumptious looking chocolate confectionery. Her mouth instantly watered.

“You missed breakfast and lunch today, didn’t you?”

Here, then, was the devil and all of his temptations. And by all that is holy, Hermione considered selling her soul. It smelled delicious and looked like it might taste divine- the perfect cake frosting ratio, with a dark chocolate garish, and a cake that appeared to be moist and fucking spongy…. She didn’t notice she was subconsciously scooting forward in her chair until she saw Tom’s eye flash.

He moved the cake away from her, and Hermione was pretty sure she growled.

“So this is how this works. _I_ give you the cake and promise not to tell Dumbledore about the frequency of these… episodes, and _you_ tell me what I want to know.”

Hermione paused. And tilted her head, considering. “Would he believe you? I understand that you are not his favorite person.”

“How would you know that?”

“By paying attention? After all, he never calls on you in Transfiguration, which always struck me as rather odd. He calls on other Slytherins.”

Tom grimaced. “Granger. Please just know that if I wanted to make problems for you, I could.”

“I’m sure, but that wouldn’t really make me inclined to aid you in any way, would it?”

“Are you going to accept the deal or not?”

Hermione pursed her lips, and considered her situation. The way she saw it, she had two options. One: deny him now, and wait for him to back her into a corner and torture her later. Two: agree to meet somewhere more private, willingly, which would give her just a bit of power in the exchange (although would require submitting to him to some extent. Was the cake worth it?).

Apparently it was. “We have an accord, if you agree to meet at a later date, _privately_ , so we can discuss your concerns.”

Tom raised a brow. “You won’t run?”

Hermione gave him an affronted look. “I am a woman of my word.”

His features still exuded suspicion, but he pushed the napkins towards her anyways. Hermione grinned.

As she indulged herself, she felt happy enough to be positively chatty. “So how did you discover my weakness?”

Tom snorted as he made to stand up. “By paying attention. You looked positively besotted at lunchtime.”

Hermione just hummed happily.

Tom looked at her for a moment. “Who knew you would be so easy to please?”

Hermione snorted. “Not all of us are high maintenance, Riddle.”

He scoffed. “I’m sure. I will contact you tomorrow about a meeting time and place. Auf Wiederschauen.”

Hermione gave him an absentminded half-wave, until she saw the librarian zero in on the chocolate from across the room. She made some kind of mad dash in her direction, expression fierce. Hermione scooped her prize up defensively, grabbed her bag, and jogged out of the room. She passed the Head Boy laughing, and continued to sprint down the hall.

She didn’t realize until later in the evening that all of her earlier feelings of anger and bitterness had completely disappeared in Tom’s presence. Which assuredly didn’t bode well. And in regards to what she had learned in the library…. She wondered how she would keep her head.

Well at least she had a dueling competition to look forward to. She just needs to find the resources to practice. Perhaps Charles Potter would be willing to lend her a hand?

 

* * *

 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write for some reason, and it doesn't seem... right. For some reason. If you can spot the reason, please let me know. 
> 
> In any case, thank you for reading darlings! Let me know what you think?


	5. Hermione Makes a Temporary Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why spoil the surprise?

**Chapter 5: Hermione Makes a Temporary Ally**

* * *

 

 

Merlin’s swinging, saggy balls. For the love of all that is holy, no…

“Ahem! Children, gather round! I am your substitute teacher until Professor Merrythought’s health improves. It is _wonderful_ to meet you! I trust you all read the chapter? Or course you did, you’re not _completely_ stupid, my goodness you are all so cute!”

Her very existence was an explosion of pink lace. A larger woman, who dressed and talked like a little girl and patted a bedazzled kitten handbag with easy familiarity. Not that there was anything inherently _wrong_ with pink-wearing larger women that carried around bedazzled kitten handbags, but she looked and sounded so much like Dolores Umbridge that Hermione couldn’t stop from automatically gripping her wand and frowning in disbelief.

“Are you all here? Fantastic! Now according to your textbook the work of an Auror is divided into several different responsibilities, and today we will be acting out each of those roles. I will be breaking you up and directing you to _activity tables_. Doesn’t that sound like fun!”

The seventh years quickly exchanged looks of disbelief as they stared (and in some cases, gaped) at the overenthusiastic woman.

And as she continued to speak, Hermione quickly realized she was wrong in her initial assessment. This woman was much, much worse than Umbridge. _Professor_ Meadows took passive aggression to an entirely new level. Either that, or the woman truly believed she was heading a class of five year olds.

Although the familiarity of the woman’s worship of aristocracy was something Hermione could have lived without.

“Oh, Mister Malfoy is it? I’ve seen your father around the Ministry. No doubt he raised you to be a capable young man! Why don’t you go to that corner over there labeled dueling! There’s a good chap!”

“Mister Rookwood, another familiar face! So glad to see such strapping young fellows learning about Defense Against the Dark Arts on a NEWT level! We don’t you go over to the corner labeled Curse-Breaking! Oh, I’m so glad to see you’re so excited!”

And then the ridiculous woman came across Tom, and Hermione could not stop herself from leaning forward in anticipation. The woman’s voice was curt as she tilted her head curiously. Hermione thought she understood the reaction; the woman’s voice spoke of the internal aggravation of a person who makes it a point to know everyone, and then finds out that they had somehow failed. “And who might you be?”

Tom turned up the wattage of his smile in anticipation, ran a hand through his fucking perfect hair, and subtly tilted his Head Boy badge in her direction as if trying to present to her the very image of potential in the glorious power of youth. “Tom Riddle, Professor Meadows.”

He sounded so pathetically eager. Hermione couldn’t stop herself from snorting, and then smirking when Tom shot a quick dark look in her direction.

“And who are your parents, Mister Riddle?”

Her voice was sickenly sweet.

“Oh, um… I’m an orphan, Professor.” He looked down in a semblance of shame, and peered back up at her through his eyelashes in order to gauge her sympathy.

The woman was clearly indifferent to Tom’s charms, smiling dismissively. Hermione was intrigued despite herself. “Such a pity, Mister Riddle. And I can see that you _try_ hard, despite the overwhelming probability that you will never amount to anything,” she gave his Head Boy badge a pitying glance.

Tom stilled.

She sighed loudly, almost whimsically, before continuing. “The fact that you try is _adorable_. But I’m afraid I need to act as the voice of reason in order to prevent any future disappointment. Can’t get our expectations too high, now can we? You can go to the corner over there labeled Reports and Record Keeping.”

Hermione’s eyes widened almost automatically. Well, fuck. She was expecting a reproof, but not a complete dismissal. But Tom seemed to be taking it in stride, heading to the designated table with a proud tilt to his chin, although his eyes were stormy.

Professor Meadow readily dismissed him and moved onto Avery. “Ah, this must be Mister Avery! Yes, I saw you with your parents in a box seat during the last World Cup. Your little sister is just the cutest little thing… Why don’t we put you in the dueling corner next to Malfoy, hm?”

A couple more students of distinction joined Rookwood before the woman got to Hermione, who was already expecting the worst. She stared up at the woman defiantly.

Professor Meadows peered at her for at least fifteen seconds in surprise, just blinking. And then…

“There’s a girl in this class? What on earth was Headmaster Dippet thinking? Such a _silly_ old coot.”

The woman stepped just that bit closer, trying to identify her. “Well, girl? Who are you?”

Hermione’s lips pursed distastefully. “Hermione Granger.”

The professor hummed thoughtfully. “Granger, Granger…. Ah, would you happen to be a relative of Hector Dagworth-Granger? Marvelous potioneer. Simply brilliant.”

Hermione couldn’t hide her disdain. “That is not any of your business. I apologize Professor, but I was under the impression that you were here to teach us about Defense Against the Dark Arts, not to flaunt your questionable pedigree.”

Because, really, the only justification the woman might have to act so deferentially to the wealthier denizens of the magical world and attempt to establish so many contacts would be to cover up the fact that she did not come by those contacts the traditional way. A.K.A. Nepotism.

A hush fell across the room at her statement.

The woman’s sickly smile was back. “Miss Granger, there is nothing wrong with attempting to better understand my students. How else can I be expected to properly motivate them?”

“Perhaps you should be more concerned about motivation only after you’ve observed their discouragement? Which would require that you actually teach them something in the first place.”

The woman’s face started to turn a startling pink, and slightly concerned that this unsubtle act of defiance could instigate serious retribution, Hermione backpedaled, quickly adding, “I apologize if that seemed too bold, but-” Hermione paused to flutter her eyelashes innocently, “-I want to help you succeed. Serving as a _temporary_ instructor must be difficult.”

The woman immediately relaxed back into the expected exchange of passive-aggressive remarks. Hermione’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, considering how quickly the woman defused. It was almost unnatural. Perhaps the woman had training ingrained when she was a child that emphasized the appropriateness of lady-like behavior? Which would include not making a scene?

In any case, the frilly woman retaliated. “Oh, you _poor_ child! To think that this is all I do with my time. Although no doubt this just a consequence of your unfortunate upbringing. Well, in the real world you _might_ be able to cut it as a secretary. You can join Mister Riddle.”

Hermione smiled unpleasantly. “Of course Professor. And I will let Uncle Hector know you feel that way.” She marched defiantly over to Tom, ignoring her professor’s choked response, and stood next to him with her arms crossed. She was angry enough to ignore the fact that this made them look like a united front.

Their position as it was, Tom was able to mutter into her ear over their shoulders, looking remarkably cavalier following Hermione's dismissal. Misery loves company perhaps? “Are you actually related?”

Hermione snorted. “If I am, he hasn’t bothered to inform me.”

Tom smirked. “And if they ask for proof?”

She snarled quietly. “None of their goddamn business.”

“Hmm.”

Hermione was feeling petulant, and looked at the sign above their corner with a displeased pout. “Perhaps we could write a report about the benefits of meritocracy? With a tidbit about how relying on feudalistic tendencies prevents innovation and community growth.”

Tom’s smirk widened in response to her comment, although his reply was sharp. “Why waste the time when the material would go over their heads? Besides, it wouldn’t instigate any real change. That would necessitate a sacrifice on behalf of the aristocracy. Which they might be convinced to do if their relevancy decreases, but that is unlikely to happen with people like _Miss Meadows_ mucking about.”

Hermione huffed. “Then perhaps a realistic doomsday scenario about the detriments of nepotism?” She looked over to Tom with mischievous eyes. “A young, up and coming Minister of Magic, pushed through the system with none of the experience but all of the pedigree, suddenly responsible for defending the magical community against a foreign invasion of Dark wizards. And tragically everyone dies except those capable of defending themselves, who go on to rebuild society with smarter, better-looking children.”

Tom’s eyes were dancing. “Better looking?”

Hermione smirked. “Inbreeding has very real consequences, Tom. This generation only seems to be affected in the mind, but add on a few more generations?”

Tom actually chuckled, and Hermione had to stop herself from gaping. He turned to her curiously. “Tell me, how often do you think about killing people?”

What a non-sequitur. Hermione felt her lips curl up in amusement. “It depends. Certain people seem to bring out the more homicidal aspect of my personality.”

“Am I to understand that I am one of those people?”

Hermione gave him a small smirk. “Birds of a feather?”

Another chuckle. She looked away from his face, almost irrationally afraid to see the good humor transform his features. She wasn’t comfortable being confronted with the very small aspects of his humanity that seem to have persisted.

Although, my goodness, if he continued to laugh at her quips she would start to get a big head and decide that she actually had a sense of humor. Which according to the boys, she absolutely did not.

When she eventually looked back up at him she saw he was fairly grinning. And fuck, it was beautiful. She was right to be afraid.

“You think I’m homicidal?”

Hermione eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she mentally shoved down any inward observations made about his appearance. “Is this a trick question?”

“I’m just curious about why you think that way.”

Hermione lifted a brow. “Oh, so your threats about interrogating me for information and making me scream _were_ actually sexual in nature? Kinky.”

Tom snorted.

They were interrupted by a sickly sweet voice.

“Children? Why are you just standing there when you should be working at your activity table? I wasn’t aware that any of you were hard of hearing. You should be watching the duels and writing reports on what you witnessed.”

The woman paused to look down at a skinny boy at her side. “Mister Williams will be joining you. Please at least aim for competence? Your first impressions were rather lacking. But I know you can do it if you give 110%!” The smile she gave them was mocking, before she called out, “Toodle-loo!” and twirled away.

Tom and Hermione shared an aggravated look as their professor fairly skipped to the other side of the room. They both knew she had not given them any kind of verbal cue. And Hermione found that she couldn’t stop sneering. “I wasn’t aware that telepathy was a requirement for Auror training.”

Tom’s eye flashed. “I can’t believe that a woman claiming to want to know her students couldn’t be bothered to check the gradebook.”

Hermione smirked, her gaze wicked. “Aw, did she bruise your pride Tom?”

He sneered. “Like you’re unaffected.”

Hermione huffed. “I don’t give two flying fucks what that tacky arsemonger of a sycophant thinks. I just can’t believe her gall. And she reminds me of someone unpleasant.”

He tilted his head in question.

“The woman I led into the forest to be crushed by giants and eaten by giant spiders?”

Tom looked thoughtful. “Hm. But she didn’t actually die?”

Hermione frowned. “The Headmaster interfered.” And then she brightened. “Although I hear she was grievously injured. Centaurs are wonderful creatures.”

“I wasn’t aware that Centaurs normally attacked people on sight.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “They do if you call them ‘filthy half-breeds’ and ‘creatures of near-human intelligence’, and then proceed to strangle them with ropes.”

Tom blinked down at her in muted disbelief. “Who would be that stupid?”

Hermione shrugged. “She was a _special_ woman.”

“Apparently.”

There was a loud call from across the room. “Mister Riddle! Miss Granger! Mister Williams! I do not see you writing!”

Hermione pursed her lips, before dipping parchment and a quill out of her bag. “I am going to make this the most detailed depiction of a duel ever written. And fill it with language truly representative of her vast intellect.”

“So a third-year level then?”

Hermione giggled and began to write.

They spent a good twenty minutes scribbling on parchment, Williams jotting things down on the table as far away from the two of them as he could manage.

Hermione only just absentmindedly realized she and Tom were sharing an ink well when Professor Meadows came up from behind them.

“Let me see what you have Mister Riddle? There’s a good boy.”

Tom stilled again, his eyes narrowed in irritation, as the woman grabbed the paper impatiently, bright violet nails flashing from the quick movement.

Stupidly, Hermione thought to herself, ‘Not pink?’, before their interim professor began her tirade.

“Perfunctory at best, Mister Riddle. However, I’m afraid professional caliber report writing requires some intuitive leaps and descriptions that seem to be beyond you. A pity. I suppose I was optimistic in thinking that you would be capable of even the simplest aspect of Auror work.”

Tom was very quiet. Almost submissive, if not for the angry, embittered turn of his mouth and the almost maniacal flash in his eyes.

Their professor looked towards the other students, then, as if expected the dressing-down to encourage some level of comradery. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement when she saw that everyone in the room was carefully not looking in their direction, doing their best not to react in the slightest.

Hermione found herself defending him before she even realized what she was doing. Stupid. “I am sure his work is entirely competent considering his impediments.”

The older woman’s eyes shot in her direction curiously. “Oh? And what might those be? His… circumstances?”

Hermione sneered. “Hardly. Tom didn’t need the ‘right circumstances’ to rise out of mediocrity. No, I am talking about the obvious impediments. Working under the instruction of a defunct professor who has more than likely never actually been in an auror office, and who provided little to no instruction in regards to the proper methodologies of said assignment and actively discouraged students she deemed unworthy according to an incredibly unprofessional subjective bias.”

Tom slowly turned his head towards her, an indecipherable look on his face. Miss Meadow was infinitely more predictable; her face turned that violent shade of pink again, and her fists began to shake. Then she forced herself to take several deep breaths, and turned towards Hermione with a saccharine smile.

“I think detention is in order. My office, Friday after dinner. And in the meantime I will have a discussion with the Headmaster about the suitability of your presence in this course. Participation of this subject at the NEWT level is hardly befitting a young lady.”

Hermione was still sneering, but the bitterness and anger were growing. Some of that aimed at herself- after all, she hardly _needed_ to defend an impending Dark Lord, even if at the moment he looked more like a teenager that had unfairly taken a lot of shit over the years. And as par the usual, that resentment came out as sarcasm.

“Of course, Professor. How silly of me. I had forgotten that Dark Wizards, Werewolves, Vampires, and Dementors do not attack young ladies. How incredibly lucky for us that individuals practicing the Dark Arts are so noble in their sentiments.”

Tom snorted, and the older woman’s eyes flashed in response to this noise.

“If you were a proper young lady, you would never need to worry about being put in a position where you would encounter any of those threats.”

“Really? And where do all of the proper young ladies go when wartime hits? Are they to play host to demons, or encouraged to hide under the bed?”

The next look Tom sent was intrigued. Suddenly aware she was staring, Hermione spent a split second wondering how she had gotten so good at deciphering the emotions behind his expressions, and then realized she was always aware of him. Always watching. At first, out of wary apprehension intermixed with periods of intense resentment and anger, but now… no wonder everyone thought that she liked him.

“Nonsense. What war…”

“So you believe Grindenwald isn’t a threat?”

Professor Meadows’ expression was tight. “Hardly.”

Hermione tilted her head at the familiarity of her stance, feeling jaded. “Is that your personal opinion, or the Ministry’s official stance on the subject?”

The older woman was wary. “Wouldn’t they be one and the same?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not necessarily.”

Hermione had been about to add on more when she stopped herself. She suddenly realized she had been thinking about Meadows’ obvious deference towards the Noble Twenty-Eight in the context of Voldemort’s war. Hermione mentally smacked herself when she realized she was remembering her past and talking to their new Professor as if it was still 1997. It’s not the same. Not at all. Why was she acting so idiotically today? Although, in her defensive, she had only been in this new timeline for a month. Not much of an adjustment period.

At least she hadn’t said anything too incriminating.

Her Professor’s eyes were narrowed. “And what does ‘Uncle Hector’ have to say about the subject?”

Hermione’s smile was a mirror image of her professor’s. Touché, but Hermione had always been something of a smartass. “That perhaps if Hector Fawley had been a bit more proactive, half of Europe wouldn’t be up in flames?”

Although Hermione knew that was an unfair assessment, well aware of how the muggle world war was decimating the continent.

Professor Meadows was considering. “Regardless of your knowledge or connections, I still think your placement in this course is inappropriate. And I am sure many of these fine boys agree.”

Tom spoke up, and Hermione’s mouth opened a little in surprise when she realized he was speaking in her defense. The look he sent her was amused and mocking. “I disagree, Professor. I believe that her presence would be good for the young men in this class. While I completely agree that a… proper young lady should stay out conflict wherever possible, I am sure you are aware that there are exceptions. And I would hate for any of my peers to be caught unawares and prove hesitant to carry out their duty because of an overemphasis on chivalry to the point of stymieing their ability to act on their self-preservation instinct.”

Many of the young men (cough Tom’s cronies cough) were quick to voice their agreement, and their professor pouted her lips in irritation.

Hermione spoke up from behind her. “If I may be so bold Professor? If this subject is so unsuitable for women, why are you teaching it?”

That saccharine smile was back. “Teaching is not the same thing as becoming an Auror, which is part of what this class prepares you for. Why else do you think fifth years receive career counseling before deciding on their course schedule? Perhaps you should not be so quick to judge. You are hardly as clever as you seem to think, which is so _darling_ …”

She turned to the rest of the class. “We will continue this activity on Monday. In the meantime, the Headmaster and I will have words. And Mister Riddle dear? Do try to improve your performance. You seem to overestimate your cleverness as well.”

She swept back towards her desk.

Hermione took that to mean she was not going to give up on removing her.

Of fucking course not. That would be too easy. Goddammit.

She looked over at Tom and realized he seemed to be just as angry, staring off in the direction of their professor with a disturbing look on his face.

Hermione considered her position, and the fact that they had just defended each other (an action she was sure to attempt to psychoanalyze later). She thought about what changes she was making in this timeline, and the potential implications. And realized she had no real idea about what she was going to do if she was trapped here forever.

She needed a battle plan. And in order to make one, she needed time.

And with that in mind, she stepped close enough to Tom that their sleeves brushed and casually introduced a new topic.

“So, Tom. I hear that Professor Merrythought will be in the infirmary for at least another two weeks.”

The tone of her voice was idle, but she was sure her Slytherin classmate could hear her frustration at that horrible truth. And Tom did not look at her in response, peeved aggravation still a tightly controlled coil, but by the way he momentarily paused, Hermione could tell he was listening.

“It might be useful to set up a temporary alliance. As I have a strong feeling that this treatment is going to continue for as long as she is here.”

He paused again, before looking up at her. Assessed her for a quiet moment. “I suppose that doesn’t sound too disagreeable. For the entertainment value, if nothing else.”

Hermione continued, biting her lip, considering. “The only caveat is that it would push back our private meeting. After all, an interrogation is hardly an appropriate activity to foster amiability and cooperation.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously.

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I am hardly going anywhere. And it’s not as if two weeks is really going to change anything.”

They were interrupted by a cheery voice.

“Malfoy, there is no need to look so glum. That was a _such_ a good attempt today. And I am sure you will do even better on Monday! Turn that frown upside down!”

Tom lips pulled back in distaste. “Fine. Two weeks. And as the first act of our temporary alliance, I am giving you my completed reports. Be a doll and give it to our lovely professor for me?”

Hermione’s brow raised, but it was hard not to feel some kind of triumph after successfully sequestering more time to evaluate her situation. She had a feeling her face looked rather constipated from her mixed feelings, but whatever. “Of course.”

“Excellent.”

And then he walked away, just like that. Grabbed his bag, and exited the room with the rush.

Some ally he was. Arsehole.

Hermione tried to convince herself that she hadn’t meant that as an endearment, and failed.

Fuck.

Cue distraction.

Hermione approached the professor with the brightest fake smile she could manage. “Professor Meadows! Here are our reports.”

The older woman blinked down at Hermione’s paper. “This is… long.”

Hermione was aggravated enough to take the time to truly _explore_ her ability to retaliate passive-aggressively.

“Well, I was just so enthused by the _idea_ , I found that I had to write absolutely everything down. 110%, right? And, by the way, this was such a _clever_ simulation Professor. I really enjoyed class today.”

The woman was twitching slightly, as if she had no way to gauge Hermione’s sincerity and thus had no idea how to respond.

“Anyways… I hope the rest of your day is as pleasant as you are. Toodle-loo!”

Hermione swept away before Miss Meadows could respond.

Merlin, it felt good being a bitch.

 

* * *

 

It was only after she trounced Charles soundly for the sixth time that she realized exactly why she needed to join the Dueling Club.

Before, her interest had been reactionary, rooted in contrary defiance because she was angry they thought to disclude her because of her gender.

Because, while she knew how important it was to keep up her skills in that area, that kind of practice did not require the support of a student organization.

But she needed more than someone skilled enough to match her; she wanted someone with the ambition to push her. Which she was reasonably sure she could find in the club.

His next statement summed up her hesitation quite nicely.

“Hey Hermione, not that this hasn’t been fun- I don’t think I’ve even been beaten by a prettier girl- or any girl, really- but why are you doing all of this? You’re already very good at dueling.”

In fact, that statement seemed to sum up a lot of her interactions with her peers over the years.

Why did she need to excel when it wasn’t necessary to succeed? Why devote the time needed for perfection, when she could be enjoying more hedonistic pursuits? Why was she always pushing for more- more knowledge, more experience, more recognition…

She was fucking tired of people asking. And she hadn’t consciously realized up until that point how _exhausting_ it was to spend time with people who didn’t understand her. At all.

So Hermione just gave the Potter a tired smile, and said, “Don’t worry, we can stop,” all the while making plans for finding a way to corner Tom into letting her join. Although at this point she might just settle for a decent partner.

Maybe she could scope out a session and poach a partner?

That might be a very viable plan B.

Still, she was happy to have a person in Gryffindor who wasn’t actively looking to sabotage her.

Which reminded her of that little incident from a few days ago, and the meeting she had set up with her Potions Professor to analyze the evidence.

Although she still had an hour, and she was hesitant to go gallivanting around in the dungeons by herself without an appointment… What if some cocky Slytherin decided to start a skirmish? Honestly, it seemed like a hassle.

Luckily, Hermione Granger was never without her handy dandy backpack crammed with textbooks, homework assignments, and too many quills. She could work anywhere at anytime, to her heart’s desire. Thus, it was no surprise that an hour passed quite quickly as she worked on an Arithmancy assignment. And then she headed to the Potions classroom with surprisingly few interruptions.

Merlin be praised.

It was ridiculously easy to get permission from Professor Slughorn to brew a few potions in the lab after hours. Like, stupidly easy. She hadn’t even finished asking, and he was ushering her in and helping her pick out ingredients (an elaborated excuse on hand concerning the whys, but the man had barely inquired).

She supposed there were benefits to being in his favor.

An hour and half later, she was able to verify that the blood was not human. Another hour, and she could see the smoky visage of a cat rise briefly from the cauldron, before the potion settled.

Someone had murdered a cat.

Huh.

Hermione was not happy about that fact- not at all, she was rather fond of cats- but for some reason she had seriously considered that it might belong to a person. That the offender was trying to implicate her in something as dramatic as a murder. Or perhaps that they would have found a way to use her own blood, as a kind of threat and allusion to her lack of defenses. But a cat?

It made her feel oddly paranoid, actually, as if she had been overacting. Another indication that she was thinking like a child soldier, rather than an ostracized student.

Was it because they couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t turn to her Head of House? That they considered there might be an investigation, and an analysis, and they didn’t want to accidentally be charged with a crime?

But they would have needed to leave evidence to be wary of indictment. Although maybe they wanted to avoid the increased scrutiny of the staff?

Hermione sighed. She had no way of knowing. The best could do was to wait for the next violation and catch them in the act. Which would indicate traps. And while Hermione had some prior experience in warding and barriers, she knew the runes involved for trap-making or curses were very different. She would need to go back to the library.

Maybe the boys were right. She did spend an ungodly amount of her time there.

But first, a quick visit to the kitchens for a spot of chocolate cake.

She needed the energy. And it was important to devote time to life’s small pleasures, you understand.

* * *

 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually not very happy with this chapter, but decided that I had agonized over it long enough. I have a plan, but the devil is in the details, and what an elusive devil it is turning out to be. Please let me know what you think. I will continue to edit. Thank you all so much so far for your support. You're all perfect darlings.


	6. Hermione Gets Locked in a Broom Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New OC, and other shenanigans.

**Chapter 6: Hermione Gets Locked in a Broom Closet**

* * *

 

“It’s not f-fair!”

The sobbing girl let out a whining keen, and Hermione had to stop herself from cringing.

“I was supposed to be his Mary Myerscough!”

Hermione ignored the popular cultural reference she had no way of placing, and mentally cursed every deity she had even remotely heard of for being put in this situation. Locked in a fucking broom closet with a heartbroken, utterly besotted Lilac White.

“Tasteful and sophisticated, and just the thing to bring to a party-”

Good lord, it sounded like she was describing a fine wine, rather than a woman. But perhaps the comparison worked, Hermione thought quite meanly to herself. Something to collect and show off to your mates, but keep behind closed doors until you were good and ready. And in the meantime, sampling what else the world had to offer was fine, after all, it was just a taste…

Fuck, she sounded bitter.

But she had drudged up enough compassion to keep her trap shut, and she mentally patted herself on the back for the effort. After all, she, too, had been slighted by the vastly less observant sex of their species.

“Why? Why doesn’t he like me? Do you know Granger? Since everyone says you’re so effing smart?”

Wow. That was probably the closest the girl had ever come to using profanity. She must be very upset. Unfortunately, Hermione was not feeling generous enough to attempt to console the uppity rich girl’s fragile ego. It was her fucking fault they were trapped here in the first place.

And then the girl had the gall to kick her. “Well, Granger? Finally decided to shut up now that Tom isn’t around to flirt with?”

Hermione couldn’t stop the aggravated sigh. “I really don’t want to be here right now.”

It was as close to an admission as she was willing to concede to.

Lilac snorted. “Well, join the club. You are the _last_ person I would _ever_ want to be stuck in a broom closet with. _Ever_.”

Merlin save her from melodramatic teenage girls…

Another sigh. “Am I?”

“Absolutely. You are completely aggravating, all the way from your stupid polished shoes to your bushy curls. How does it even maintain that volume in this humidity?”

How does one politely say, I’ve been nicking all of your shampoo, and that shit is amazing?

“Cursed since childhood.”

Partially true. And, really, the bushiness was definitely something she could have lived without. Girls with straight hair who complained about a lack of curls were obviously ungrateful daft cows. They could do anything with it. _Literally_ anything.

Lilac snickered meanly. “I’m sure it was absolutely impossible when you were younger.”

Hermione readily agreed with her, nodding. “Practically sentient.”

Based on the silence, Hermione could guess at the dramatically wary look the girl must have right now, not expecting Hermione to agree with her. But at least she finally stopped talking.

Sigh…

Hermione was bored. She hated to be bored. Absolutely hated it. And she had never been the type of person prone to internal mental fantasies. And she had been in this forsaken four by four crowded closet for three hours already. And Lilac had spent at least one hour crying about all of the reasons why her life was completely unbearable at the moment…

However, she was not bored enough to engage Lilac in conversation. She would recite potion instructions if she had to.

Thankfully she never had to resort to that. One of the several dozen deities she implored to must be looking out for her, because the door to the closet suddenly fell forward only fifteen minutes later, and a handsome teenage boy fell into her lap. Although his elbows were rather harder than she might have imagined if she had ever bothered to fantasize about this particular scenario…

“Well, hello.” His attempt at a sultry tone was hilariously pathetic. Hermione felt her lips quirk up in reluctant amusement.

“Hello?”

“I must say, when those fuckers threw me in here, I wasn’t expecting to find myself in the arms of such a… lady.”

“They what-” was the last thing she got out, before someone laughed cruelly behind them, (Hermione prayed that the similarity to Avery’s voice was just a coincidence), and the door slammed shut and locked them in. And the room was plunged into near darkness. Again.

Hermione sighed. There went any delusions she had that this might be an adorable meet cute…

“Do you think you could get off of me? Your elbows are really sharp.”

He startled. “Oh, of course.”

There was shuffling, and then a moment of awkwardness when he accidentally grabbed one of her breasts to stabilize himself.

But instead of apologizing, like any boy might who possessed even an ounce of self-preservation, he squeezed and stated, loudly, “Oh, nice.”

Well, she wasn't about to let something like that pass. Hermione grit her teeth and reached a hand over to find his nose in the dark. And then after she located it, cocked back her fist, pivoted her shoulder, and punched his face. Hard.

He cried out, “Oh, fuck,” just as he was knocked backwards into the warm, plushy lap of Lilac White. Who immediately shrieked up a storm about violations to her precious virtue before he could make any kind of sexist comment.

Hermione smiled grimly, finally finding a reason to appreciate the girl beyond her fantastic hair products.

Safe to say, it was a good five minutes before everyone was settled in a way that was, at the very least, partially acceptable (considering the overlapping legs). And then mystery boy decided that they needed to share absolutely everything under the sun with each other. Starting with their names.

“So, ladies? Mind telling me who I am spending time with in this fucking tiny broom closet?”

Hermione knew Lilac wouldn’t mind responding, and tried to head her off. Fucking git didn’t deserve conversation. “Do I have to?”

“Of course not. But if you don’t give me your names, then I will be forced to come up with names for you. And I’m not sure you would enjoy what I might assign.”

Hermione scoffed. “I don’t care.”

But Lilac sounded offended, and Hermione knew it would all go downhill from there. “Lilac White,” stated strongly, as if just that information was important enough mean something. Which in her case, it actually might. Hermione frowned as she considered the stupidity and unfairness that was aristocracy.

“I see. Lovely to meet you, Miss Lilac. Apologies for any unintentional contact.”

His gentlemanly tone was over-exaggerated enough to be sarcastic, and Hermione fought a smirk.

Because once again, the girl demonstrated no ability to pick it up. Instead, she just sniffed dramatically. “It’s alright. Granger’s the one who is uncouth.”

There was a pause, and then, “Granger? As in, Hermione Granger?”

Lilac’s voice was smug. “The very one.”

But the boy just laughed. “I see. Good to meet you, Granger. And may I just say, bloody fantastic rack.”

“What?” Lilac squeaked, offended.

Hermione just snorted, feeling quite vindicated by her earlier violent outburst. “It’s the early morning cold-water massages. Works better than a charm.”

He sounded absolutely intrigued. “Really?”

Hermione continued. She loved sarcasm. “Oh, absolutely. Especially when we give them to each other in the shower. No better way to encourage house comradery, really.”

His awe was hilarious. “I had no idea…”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things you don’t know, Gherkin.”

“Gherkin?”

Hermione scoffed. “You didn’t give us your name. And we were talking about sizes, so I figured…”

It took him a moment, but she could tell when he got it, because he let out a big groan. And then a laugh. “Don’t worry, Granger, my todger is plenty sizable.”

Lilac let out another squeak.

Hermione hummed. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

“No, I’m serious. Do you want to feel? Only right after I felt you up.”

Hermione did her best to stretch, popping her back quite pleasantly in a few places. “No thank-you, Gherkin.”

“It’s Elijah. Come on, Granger, don’t be mean.”

Lilac gasped before she could respond. “Elijah Walker?”

The boy sounded defensive. “What’s it to you?”

Lilac’s voice was coy. “Oh, nothing…”

“Seriously White…”

But she wouldn’t respond, and Elijah eventually changed gears. “So… House and year?”

Lilac snorted delicately. “As if you didn’t already know…”

“Well, maybe I wanted to talk to Granger.”

“Humph. I doubt she’s listening.”

“Don’t be stupid… Granger! Hey Granger, house, year?”

Hermione sniffed, and considered whether or not she should answer. But it couldn’t hurt, right? Anything to distract herself from the boredom that was her life without her bookbag- “Seventh year, Gryffindor. But I’m pretty sure you already knew.”

Elijah scoffed. “Introductions entail an exchange. Seventh, Hufflepuff. Favorite colour?”

Lilac seemed excited to answer this one. “Teal. Not lilac, thank you very much.”

“Granger?”

Hermione let out an aggravated sigh because she was starting to see where this conversation was going, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stick around for the long haul. So she considered how difficult it would be to hold off participating, and if it would be worth the effort. But after he whined her name a few more times, she capitulated. Because she was hesitant to cast a silencing charm when she couldn’t see where he was, and fuck, her last name was annoying when he repeated it like that…

“Purple.”

Just not fucking orange, really…

Elijah sounded excited. “Blue-grey! You know the colour clouds get right before a thunderstorm? That fucking colour. So, favorite animal?”

Lilac was the first to respond again. “Unicorns!”

Hermione scoffed at her answer, before saying, “Cats.”

“Wolves, actually, they’re such fucking majestic creatures… Favorite spell!”

“The Impediment Jinx.”

Hermione turned to the girl in surprise. That spell was usually only associated with dueling. “Really? Do you duel?”

The girl let out a very soft, “Quite possibly,” and Hermione grinned.

“That’s great. We should duel some time.”

Hermione hadn’t met another girl in this time who was willing to duel her. So she was very curious about the kind of spells Lilac knew, and if her knowledge eclipsed Potter’s. But Lilac just hummed noncommittally, and Elijah started to repeat her last name again. It eventually snapped a nerve.

“The Patronus Charm. But I’ll answer when I’m good and fucking ready, understand Walker?”

She could tell he was grinning based on the tone of his voice. “Of course, Granger. And might I just say, you’re fucking hot when you swear.”

Hermione just scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to be a Hufflepuff? I’ve never met one with a mouth like yours.”

Another grin. “I am completely Hufflepuff. I decided equity was the way to go, so decided to be an arsehole to everyone. So that way no one feels left out! It’s brilliant!”

“I’m sure.”

“Sarcasm is damn sexy too.” Hermione could tell that if the room allowed for any more visibility, he would be leering.

And Hermione didn’t say anything in response, because she couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t sarcastic, and she didn’t want to encourage him.

He let out a huff at her silence. “But yeah, the Patronus is fucking brilliant. Can you cast one?”

“Maybe.”

Perhaps if she answered everything with one word responses she could avoid both encouraging him and hearing her last name repeated ad nauseam?

“Will you do it now?”

Hermione considered, and Lilac interrupted. “Come on Granger, I know you want to. Show off that you are.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t show off-”

But she was cut off as Elijah snorted. “Oh, please. I’m in a couple of your classes. I didn’t think I would ever meet anyone who was more of a braggart than Riddle, and then you popped into our lives. And I have to say, you are certainly giving him a run for his money.”

Hermione decided to take that as a compliment. And relented with a huff. Alright, so she was kind of a show-off… She thought about the evening she first saw Hogwarts and realized that her life really was going to become magical, and then… “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

The light of her otter was bright enough that she could see Lilac smile at the creature spinning circles through the air. Elijah was grinning, and Hermione was once again taken aback by how good-looking he was. Then lamented to herself. Why were all of the attractive men in this world berks?

“Neat trick Granger.”

She snorted. “Well, you know. Party-goer that I am, I needed a few parlor tricks up my sleeve, just in case.”

“Well, I did hear that Slughorn’s little shindig was quite the event thanks to you. Did you do a lot of entertaining?”

Hermione just sighed. That fucking party was determined to haunt her, she was sure of it. Elijah was hardly the first student in the last couple of weeks to ‘causally’ mention it in conversation. And she was inclined enough not to talk about it to risk participating in the Hufflepuff’s exhaustive rendition of 20 questions. “You didn’t tell us your favorite spell.”

“Ahh, I see what you did there. And I am very curious why the aforementioned showoff is unwilling to brag about something. But because your punch was such a good hit, I’ll let you off the hook. Hehe, hook… get it?”

This time, Lilac was the one to let out an aggravated sigh.

But Elijah was not to be dissuaded. “You realize you hit harder than a man, right?”

“The spell, Walker?”

“Oh. Ummm…. Expelliarmus. Dead useful, easy to cast, and it doesn’t go super wonky when you add too much power. Usually. So, uh, favorite food?”

These questions continued for the next hour, and by the end of it Hermione was ready to pull out her hair. Why was she still participating? Sure, it wasn’t nearly as bad as listening to Lilac blubber about her insecurities, but he was just… like the Weasley twins, she realized, if one of them suddenly became extremely profane and sarcastic.

But then he asked a question that actually got her thinking.

“So what are you guys planning to do after you graduate?”

What a fantastic question.

Lilac, very predictably, outlined a picture-perfect life in which she was married to an attentive, attractive, successful man, who gave her a house with a decent sized kitchen, a rose garden, and at least two babies (with their precious cherub cheeks and pouty lips, oh she couldn’t wait….). Hermione was a little more hesitant to answer, simply because she had no idea. She had only made that truce with Riddle a few days ago, and she hadn’t had the time to sit down and really think about what she wanted to do. Sure she had done her best to network at the party, but truthfully, most of their interactions with her were denigrating at best, contumely at worst. It wasn’t very encouraging.

“I’m not sure.”

Elijah sounded surprised. “Are you fucking kidding me, Granger? With your drive? You have no idea?”

Hermione found herself missing the light of the Patronus, if only so Elijah could see the unimpressed look on her face. “I have a lot of options,” she ended up huffing defensively.

He snorted. “I can imagine. I heard a rumor you are planning to get all twelve N.E.W.T.S. Which is verifiably insane.”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself from correcting him. “Eleven. I’m getting eleven N.E.W.T.S.”

A pause, and then, “Oh, of course. So much better.”

She made an unladylike noise which had Lilac clicking her tongue in disapproval and made Elijah let out a barking laugh.

“But I’m curious. Which one are you leaving out?”

“Divination.”

She could tell he was smiling again. “Because it’s bullshit? Yeah, I feel you. Did you know that last Valentine’s Day this girl from Ravenclaw paid someone to pretend to be a Seer that _foresaw_ the two of us getting married? And then expected me to just run right into that shit? Fucking people, man…”

Hermione snorted. “Better than dosed chocolates, at least.”

“Yeah, well… we can get you squared away. Right White?”

Lilac sounded startled to be addressed. “What?”

“We’re going to help poor Granger out with her aspiration quandary. So, Granger, what do you spend most of your time doing?”

It didn’t take Hermione long to respond. “Research, reading, and writing. And dueling. Although I also like to knit...”

Another smile shaped the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s so fucking domestic, Granger. Adorable because you punch like a man. Alright, so you are inclined towards Academia. No surprise there. Do you want to work at the Ministry?”

How does one politely say fuck no? Although it wasn’t as if she had a big reason to be polite with Mr. Guttermouth over here… “Fuck no.”

“You can’t tell right now, Granger, but I’m nodding in approval. A female Muggleborn working at the Ministry? You could be the next coming of Merlin and Morgana, and they still wouldn’t give a shit. Have you considered receiving a Mastery?”

“I have. But I can’t decide on a subject I’d like to get a Mastery in.”

“Are you serious, Granger? Are you just that good in _everything_?”

He sounded so astonished that Hermione couldn’t help but pout defensively. “What did you expect? I spend all of my time studying.”

“Right… well, being a Master in something is all about expanding the field. Which subjects do you think you would be _most_ interested doing that in?”

She spent at least three long minutes really thinking about it, and then, “Arithmancy and Potions.”

“That’s great! You see what a bit of a thought exercise can do for you? Two should be perfectly manageable for you, Granger. And those two even go together!”

“And you think I’ll be able to find someone willing to let me have two apprenticeships at the same time?”

He let out one of those really annoying “Eh” noises that was usually accompanied with a shrug. “I would have no idea. But at least it’s a start? Unless you are one of the fucking crazy obsessive compulsive birds that like to plan out every contingency plan you can think of in color-coded notebooks?”

Hermione fake gasped. “How did you know?” Only because he was absolutely ridiculous, and perhaps a little right…

Elijah let out a sagely sigh. “What can I say, Granger, I am very wise in the ways of the world. And I couldn’t help but notice that you have a type.”

Hermione was slightly less amused. “A type?”

“Yeah… you seem kind of strung out. Or, I don’t know…wired? Tense with the need to always be in control? Fuck, there isn’t a nicer way to say this…”

“And where would you get that idea?”

“Um, your actions? Your behavior? The way you present yourself? Is this a trick question?”

Hermione let out another aggravated sigh. She knew what he was talking about, and she didn’t really want to talk about it. “You’re annoying.”

Elijah responded with _way_ too much cheer, in Hermione’s opinion. “Thank you! You know, I pride myself in being irritating enough to break people. I like to think I have it perfected into an art form…”

Hermione ignored him long enough that he eventually changed the subject. “Alright, alright, so you have some built up immunity to irritation… so what else do you want to accomplish in your life? Husband, kids? Publications? Order of Merlin? Minister of Magic?”

Hermione had to laugh at that last suggestion. “You seem to think I’m ambitious.”

He snorted. “Oh, not at all. Because aspiring to get eleven N.E.W.T.S. is clearly a sign of laziness and a lack of motivation…”

Hermione couldn’t help the smile. “I suppose… a couple of kids might be nice. And if I do go into research, I fully intend to be publicized. And perhaps be invited to speak and present at magical conferences? Perhaps one day teach?”

Another over-exaggerated sage voice, and she could imagine him nodding solemnly, “Clearly the temperament of an academic.”

Hermione smiled again. “Yes, well… what do you intend to do in the future?”

“Me? Well, actually… I want to be a chef.” He sounded almost embarrassed to admit it.

Although by the way Lilac was giggling derisively at the admission, perhaps it was cause for embarrassment in this time and place?

“Can you cook?”

Another snort. “Would I want to be a chef if I couldn’t?”

Probably not? But Hermione knew the world was filled with broken, unfulfilled dreams.

“What kind of food do you cook?” Hermione was more than a little interested. Although she never gorged her face in the same manner that Ron did on just about every occasion he came in contact with food, truthfully, she was very fond of the stuff. Especially certain chocolate delicacies that shall remain nameless.

“Um, well so far I’ve specialized in soups, pastas, and breads, but I am definitely looking to expand. Experimented with soufflé, but that shit is fucking hard to perfect. Sauces and meats are next on my list, but I don’t exactly have a lot of access to a kitchen here in the castle, so…”

Hermione mentally debated what she was about to do, but considered that the opportunity for good food might just make up for his irritating personality. “Well actually, I know how to get into the kitchens if you are that interested in practicing…”

“Are you being fucking serious right now?”

“Yes?”

Then he had a mini explosion of excitement. “That sounds bloody fantastic Granger! Let’s do it. I’ll let you know later when might be a good time… I’ll have to track down some ingredients…”

He was interrupted by the door, which slowly creaked open. With enough warning, the three of them were able to fold their legs into their chest, so the door swung open wide, and they had to blink through the sudden light exposure. Their vision cleared to show a very amused Head Boy, who was postured arrogantly with his arms crossed in front of him.

“Well, this is interesting.”

Elijah scowled. “What’s it to you, Riddle?”

But the Slytherin teenager ignored him and the obviously besotted Miss White, staring at Hermione with a smug smirk. “Didn’t bother trying to unlock the door, _Hermione_? Spell too difficult for you?”

Hermione affected a sickly sweet voice in response to his ribbing. “Oh, you didn’t know? The locking mechanism on these doors is tied to Hogwart’s wards. We wouldn’t have been able to manipulate the mechanism from the inside without changing them.” She took an exaggerated breath, “It’s a pity that you aren’t more aware of the mechanisms behind the school, Tom, considering your _heritage_.”

The boy froze at the comment, and Hermione rolled her eyes at how utterly typical that was. And then before he could retort, “Did you come to rescue me, Tom? Because of our truce? You’re such a gentleman.”

He recovered his swagger in record time. “As the Head Boy, could you imagine me being anything else?”

Hermione snorted. “I suppose not. Perhaps you could keep up the image and help poor Lilac here to her feet? It’s been hours, and her legs have probably cramped from the cold stone.”

Lilac, ever helpful as she was, made an appropriate noise of discomfort.

Tom affected a false look of concern, and hurried over to help both girls to their feet, pointedly ignoring the Hufflepuff. Hermione nearly fell back on her butt as his hand reached hers, which warmed and sparked from something unspeakable. Tom’s eyes darkened in consideration after the contact, and Hermione could feel a sense of dread bubbling somewhere around her stomach.

Perhaps it was all in her head? Perhaps he would dismiss the contact as static shock?

Although some dark, pessimistic side whispered that he wasn’t brilliant for nothing, and he was surely curious and proactive enough to investigate... She really needed to get around to researching Caster, the only reference made in the only piece of literature she had found that had been in any way helpful…

Tom continued the charade with a concerned furrow in his brow. “Do either of you need to go to the hospital wing? I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill…”

Lilac looked at him as if he had said the most gallant thing she had ever heard. Then her eyes sparkled as if the sun was shining out of his arse, and she swooned dramatically. Tom caught her, and she made a good impression of the weak and sickly woman in need of a hero… “I would appreciate your help going to the hospital wing. That is, if you’re not too busy.”

He looked at Hermione as he said, “I am never too busy for a lady in need.”

Hermione felt an eyebrow lift as they stared at each other, before Lilac got fed up with the lack of attention. She pulled on his tie, and he looked down at her dispassionately. “The Hospital Wing.”

He nodded, and the pair ambled down the hallway.

She had the very necessary restraint to wait until they had rounded a corner, and then she burst into laughter. Just because that scene was so fucking ridiculous, and she was feeling rather tense… Which was quickly joined by Elijah, who had been looking at the couple through confused, narrowed eyes.

He was the first to comment, which was hard to hear through his chortling, “Did they think they were filming a movie?”

Hermione nodded through tears. “I know, right? It was so ridiculous.” And then what he had said registered in some part of her brain, and she sobered, looking at him curiously.

And then grinned momentarily, admiring the shiner blossoming under and around his right eye. She got him good... 

She continued with her original line of inquiry. “Are you a Muggleborn?”

Because why else would he reference movies so casually in conversation with _her_?

His eyes darkened with some emotion, even as he grinned rakishly. “Of course.”

Suddenly Lilac’s comment made at the beginning of this interlude was starting to make a lot more sense.

“Although I have to ask,” Elijah interrupted her mental musings, running a hand through his hair in an almost agitated manner, “Are your interactions with Riddle always that… intense? I thought it was just in the classroom, because of that weird competition thing you guys have going on.”

Hermione gave him a twisted smile that was almost like a grimace. “He’s always intense.”

Elijah gave her a pitying look. “Not with everyone.”

They walked together for a few moments, before Elijah seemed to feel comfortable enough to nudge her shoulder. “So, Granger… Kitchens? Maybe we could go now, just to check it out… and maybe indulge in some chocolate cake?”

Her eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. “How did you know?”

His look was incredulous. “Were you trying to keep it a secret?”

Hermione let out one last aggravated sigh, before changing directions. “You’re lucky I like chocolate so much.”

He just grinned, and laughed at her expense. “Mmhm, sure.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all-
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the story. Let me know what you think about our new character? And if the style of this chapter was alright? (As in, a lot more dialogue and a lot less internal musing).
> 
> Also... does it seem cohesive enough to you? I'm worried that the chapters are to disjointed to flow together in a cohesive manner...
> 
> In any case, thank you very much for the kudos and comments! You're all lovely!


	7. Hermione is Morally Ambigious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tom fail to meet.

**Chapter 7: Hermione is Morally Ambiguous**

 

* * *

 

 Sooner then Hermione was really ready for, the requisite two weeks had passed and Tom made an effort to meet with Hermione privately. For the purpose of painful interrogation, she was sure, but let it not be said that Hermione is not a woman of her word.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, his attempts were for naught. Primarily due to the interference of a certain previously dead professor.

Hermione knew that Professor Dumbledore was a man that possessed an almost inexplicable ability to be omniscient of his charges. He had a tendency to know where students had been over the holidays, sometimes congratulated high-achieving seemingly invisible children out of the blue, and could pinpoint trouble with uncanny ease. She had always suspected this was a result of his post; as Headmaster, Hermione could only imagine the kind of access to information the man had.

She was soon to find out that it had nothing to do with being Headmaster, and had everything to do with being Albus Percival something something something Dumbledore.

It should have been heartening to see a professor take such an active interest in his students. To show that, even if you weren’t loud and obvious and attention-grabbing, you were still noticed, and your good behavior and scholastic achievement was appreciated. Except for the fact that Hermione was apparently on his shit list, and the professor watched Tom’s every move more closely than a hawk.

It therefore shouldn’t have surprised either adolescent that their every attempt so far to meet privately in order to ‘discuss’ certain matters was impeded by a certain auburn-haired Transfiguration Professor.

The first time could have been written off as a coincidence. They met in an unused classroom on the fifth floor, and had diplomatically put their wands down on a desk as a gesture of good faith (although a certain glint in Tom’s eyes reminiscent of his smirk made Hermione think that Tom’s ability to cast without a wand at this point was fairly far along). Hermione had been more than a little nervous, but wore her new devil-may-care attitude on her person like a shroud. They had looked at each other for a few moments, carefully assessing the other, and Tom had opened his mouth to begin what would no doubt be a line of questioning he had carefully put together to seem unobtrusive and outwardly harmless.

He had not managed a single syllable before Professor Dumbledore sauntered into the room, his wand held high.

The bespectacled man raised an eyebrow at them both, and stated nonchalantly. “Mr. Riddle. Miss Granger. I must say that, given your interaction so far this semester, I would not have expected the two of you to meet up for a rendezvous.”

Tom met the man’s gaze with a raised eyebrow of his own. “A rendezvous?” He paused long enough to look down at his perfectly pressed robes and coiffed hair, and then glanced purposely at Hermione’s untousled state. “It hardly looks like we were engaged in an act of passion.”

“Oh? So what could you possibly be doing here?” The man gave meaningful looks to them both.

Of course, Tom had an excuse ready and in hand. “There is a project we are working on in Arithmancy. We wanted a quiet place to discuss the direction of our study.”

And of course, Hermione thought to herself, they actually did have a group assignment in Arithmancy. One she had fully intended to do with Iris, a nice, harmless girl from Hufflepuff who had been one of the few to not denigrate her based on her blood status. Now, though- Hermione had little doubt Tom would follow through on their charade and actually force her to finish the project with him, if only for appearances. And she would be forced to agree, if only to prevent Dumbledore from thinking they had any questionable reasons to meet. Fucking bullshit…

“And the parameters of this assignment requires you to meet after curfew has ended?” The professor’s sarcasm was as thick as his tone was airy.

Tom attempted to smile genially, although he must have known that both Hermione and Professor Dumbledore could see through his façade. “Our schedules are quite busy, Professor. We are both taking a great deal more classes than the typical student. It made coordinating a time to meet somewhat difficult.”

The professor hummed, and then commented, “I understand your difficulties, but you should be more aware of your position and the responsibility inherent within it. As Head Boy, participating in this kind of behavior sends the wrong kind of message, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tom’s eyes flashed and his mouth twitched downwards, but those were the only signs of dissention. “Of course, Professor. My mistake.”

“Yes, well… run along then. Back to your common rooms, the both of you.”

Hermione justified his intervention by assuming that the professor had been making rounds that night, and had stumbled across them on accident. Later, she seriously doubted the meeting was quite that serendipitous.

Tom planned the next meeting during school hours, and in a place that was readily justifiable. The library, and the two of them were closeted away in the rarely visited stacks of magical law references. They set their book bags down, and leaned against the solid wood of the shelving unit. Tom crossed his arms, sent her a penetrating look, and began to speak.

“I am sure you are aware why I felt it necessary to meet you in private.”

Hermione had an idea. If she truly knew the details of his future or past, that was precious information he wouldn’t want any of his goons overhearing. Goons from a House that made acquiring and leveraging information into an art form. And Tom Riddle was not to be leveraged.

She had a smart-ass comment all lined up for him, when their Transfiguration Professor once again stole the spotlight.

“I admit to being rather curious of that myself.” The auburn-haired man strode forward, and then paused with an inquiring expression as he spotted a book on the shelf. “I had no idea our library carried a book entirely about flobberworm litigation. Fascinating.”

Watching his micro-expressions, Hermione could tell that Tom was very frustrated. And when confronted by authority figures he couldn’t outright insult, and who he had no intention of flattering, Tom turned to sarcasm. The old standard. Hermione tried not to think about how similar her own patterns of behavior were in this instance.

“Yes _, fascinating_. I am sure you are already aware that Hermione and I are working on an Arithmancy project together. Is our meeting, then, so surprising?”

“No, I suppose not,” Professor Dumbledore paused to give the two of them a condescending smile. “And yet this is the second time I have spotted the two of you in particularly dubious locations within the last three days. Surely such absolute privacy is not necessary for an assignment.”

Tom matched his smile. “Not usually, Professor. However, some of our classmates are looking to steal our topic of study. And it would be… troublesome to have to begin researching a new topic.”

“Ah, academic rivalry… well, be that as it may, you can simply whisper to each other at one of the study tables. Just ensure you are within the sight of our dear librarian. Otherwise people may begin to wonder whether or not the two of you are engaged in some kind of… unwholesome act, and I’m sure such high achieving children would not want that kind of stain on their permanent record.”

More passive aggressive threats Hermione could easily read into. In a nut shell, I have spoken to the librarian and if she cannot see you, I will condemn the two of you for being engaged in promiscuous dalliances. And how unfortunate is it that individuals with your blood status and orphan status would not be able to make it in the professional world with that kind of a reputation. Hermione supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that such conservative values could carry such a distance in the 40’s.

Tom, Hermione observed with interest, did not respond well to threats. His eyes gleamed and his mouth straightened, but the teenager was one of applaudable self-control. “Of course, Professor.”

And so they were herded out of the isle, reluctantly forced to relocate, and both noted when they arrived at the study tables that they would have little to no privacy. The tables were packed like a sardine can, and Hermione remembered that midterms were just around the corner. This must be that last rush of assignments and projects before a week of study leading up to the exam.

They both sat down extremely unhappy. Tom, she guessed, because his attempts to interrogate her had once again been thwarted by a man so blatantly attempting to manipulate him. She was upset and increasingly uneasy at the nonchalance her Head of House displayed threatening them into submission, which spoke ill of future interactions. They shared a disgruntled look, and got out their textbooks. And Hermione reluctantly asked a question that had been bothering her. “Are there actually students in our class attempting to steal our research?”

The look Tom sent her was both condescending and amused. “Collins and Johnson. Did you really have no idea?”

Hermione ignored his disdain in favor of retrieving her wand. “Hand me your notes.”

He did so with obvious curiosity.

She muttered a quick incantation, flicked her wand about a few times, and the pages of paper shimmered gold for a moment. She paused for a second, and then added another flick. The pages were illuminated in purple for a brief second, the color indicative of a fairly strong hex. Hermione saw Tom raise an eyebrow from the corner of her eye. Then she handed the bits of paper back.

There was a pause, and then, “And that bit of spellwork accomplished…”

“A concealing charm locked onto our magical signatures. Anyone else who looks at it will see notes from the Seventh Year Herbology textbook. And a stinging hex for anyone that attempts to uncover the notes using a counter-spell.”

“That looked like a fairly strong stinging hex.”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders in a noncommitting fashion, absentmindedly fingering her own notes in front of her.

Tom laughed. “And I suppose you justify using this hex by convincing yourself that only people who should know better will be affected?”

Hermione peered over at Tom for a few silent moments. That would have been her, to a T, a few years ago. The ends justified the means kind of reasoning was at the center of her decision-making. And she always had so little patience for traitors and thieves. Now, though?

She was tired of caring. Of pretending to care.

“I’m protecting what is mine.”

Tom gave her another one of his evaluating looks, an expression that always made her slightly nervous. As if he was busy reassessing who she was as a person inside of his head. And then he nodded at her, as if he could readily agree with that kind of reasoning, and it almost made Hermione feel worse.

Almost.

Which should have been a concern in and of itself.

Their next run-in with Dumbledore was planned and anticipated. They both met in the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the afternoon, which was not strictly off-limits because it was still within curfew. They both sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a respectable distance away from each other, leaning up against their stuffed book bags.

They waited in silence for ten entire minutes. Waiting to see if they would get interrupted. If Dumbledore’s entrances were timed. He didn’t come.

Tom opened his mouth. And then began asking questions related to their Arithmancy project. They spoke in hushed tones and chattered about projecting successful alternatives to potion ingredients half-heartedly, while keeping an ear open to footsteps leading up the stairs.

Another ten minutes’ passed.

A pause, and then Tom looked at Hermione and gave her a slight nod.

“So, I have been hearing some rather interesting rumors about you, Hermione.”

Hermione looked over at him with over-exaggerated casualness. “Oh?”

The tips of Tom’s lips quirked up at her theatrical behavior. “Apparently you have a tendency to get hysterical.”

“Oh, dear Merlin, do I really?”

“Apparently.”

“My goodness. Whatever will I do?”

“No need to panic. We can figure this out. What happens when you get hysterical, do you know?”

“Well I wouldn’t _really_ know…”

“Are you sure? I heard something about you coming to Hogwarts from the future?”

Footsteps thudded on the stairs leading to the room, and in seconds a bespectacled auburn-haired head poked into the room. “Ah, Mr. Riddle! Just the student I was hoping to see. I’m afraid you have been called into a staff meeting to give a report about the Rosier incident?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he nodded. “Understood, Professor.” Then the teen got up, grabbed his book bag, and followed the professor out of the room. Hermione was left in silence, second-guessing herself, wondering at the chances that Professor Dumbledore would just so happen to intervene at just the right time. She seriously considered whether or not she was being spied on.

Feeling paranoid and vaguely upset, Hermione made her way to the kitchens, and was not at all surprised to see Elijah. He looked happy to see her. “Hermione! Good to see you. Here, sit down, I just finished a berry tart that tastes so fucking fantastic, you’ll think you just had an orgasm.”

Hermione, after a couple weeks of knowing him, had accepted his crude behavior and was somewhat amused by it. He was the kind of friend that was entertaining to be around in small doses, and who she could appreciate for being different than herself. But she was fairly sure if they were around each other on a more permanent basis, he would annoy the fucking bejeezus out of her.

“Hello Elijah.” Hermione went to sit down.

“My lady.”

Hermione looked up, thinking she was being addressed, when she realized the House Elf Matron had just entered the kitchen. And that was how Elijah had addressed the elf. Who gave him a stare in return that looked like she thought he was the dirtiest, most disgusting thing to ever enter her kitchen.

“Boy.” It was barely an utterance, muttered as she swept from the kitchen, but Elijah turned to Hermione with a grin so big, it took up just about all of his face.

“Did you hear that? She actually addressed me! How fan-fucking-tastic is that!”

“Incredible. Really.”

Hermione couldn’t help but sound a little sarcastic, clueless about why that was such a big deal, but Elijah didn’t even notice. Although, by the time he had finished dishing out a piece of fruit tart and had taken a seat next to her, he had calmed down a bit.

“So what seems to be the problem?”

Hermione looked up at him from around her filled spoon. “Pardon?”

“You only seem to visit the kitchen when you’re upset. What happened?”

Hermione put down her spoon, frowning. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea that she was so easy to read. And it’s not as if she only ate chocolate cake when she was troubled- in her mind, any time was a great time to set aside for one of Hogwart’s little cakes.

She debated for a few seconds about whether or not to tell him about her worries, and then decided, what the hell. It wasn’t as if she had a waiting list of people she could somewhat trust, eager to be her confidante.

“I think Professor Dumbledore is spying on me.”

Elijah’s brow furrowed as he started at her. “Spying? Like subterfuge? Or infiltration? Oh… oh god, I just pictured the man in one of the school skirts. Good lord.”

Hermione made a face. “No… like the following me around and listening to my conversations kind of spy.”

Elijah made a crazy face back at her for a second, and Hermione had to give a reluctant smile. Then his expression sobered. “Do you have a reason why he might want to follow you around?”

“I think he is trying to prevent me and Tom from meeting-”

“Oh, well that makes sense.”

Hermione shot Elijah a sharp look. “What? Why?”

Elijah raised a brow at her salty demonstration. “Well, whenever you two meet- which I’ve seen four times now, let me remind you- you guys look like two predators, slowly circling each other looking for the best place to devour each other raw… or fuck each other senseless. But it’s equates to about the same thing, doesn’t it?”

Hermione’s face scrunched up unpleasantly.

Elijah saw it and snorted. “What? I’m just calling it as I see it.”

“You should know that we have a temporary truce-”

“Which should have already ended.”

Hermione paused. “Wait, how do you know that?”

Another snort. Elijah smiled. “Love, this isn’t the first time you’ve told me. Are you alright?”

Hermione let out a long sigh, trying to evaluate her mental state. “I think so.”

“Right… well, the professor is probably just concerned because he can see what the rest of us can. In any case, the important question isn’t why. It’s what you are going to do about it.”

Hermione stopped to look at Elijah, surprised. “What?” And then she began mentally berating herself. This is something she should have already considered. Maybe there was something wrong with her…

“So I suppose the next logical conclusion would be to find a way to keep track of Dumbledore? Which would make it easier to avoid him.”

Hermione was caught on an idea. “Like an enchanted map…”

Elijah nodded with a considering look on his face. “Well, yes, something like that should work…”

But Hermione barely heard him. She was already going through all of the spells she could remember uncovering while she was investigating the Marauder’s Map. Surely she would be able to reproduce something like it… “Thanks Elijah,” she stated absentmindedly, scooting off the stool and swinging her book bag around her shoulder.

“Um, sure. Where are you going? You barely had one spoonful of my fruit tart!”

“Next time, I promise.” And then Hermione was rushing out of the kitchen on her way to the library. She tried to reassure herself on the way there. It shouldn’t be too hard to recreate, right? After all, while Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were rather sharp, they were hardly geniuses…

She would come to eat her words. Five hours later found her in a state of near panic. She was sitting at one of the study tables, two dozen textbooks laid out in front of her, taking up the space of an entire table. The librarian kept shooting her icy looks of disdain, but Hermione barely noticed at this point. She had over a dozen pieces of parchment filled with notes, and the ink stains on her fingers had traveled to form smudges on her forearms where she kept shrugging the sleeves of her robe up, and on her face, where she kept tugging her irritating curls out of the way. Even worse, her mounting anxiety was sending pulses of magic into the tendrils of her curls, and she just knew she was sparking…

“What’s going on here?” Her frenetic research was interrupted by a very amused sounding Head Boy.

Hermione ignored him, too caught up on a certain passage. Her frustration grew because it didn’t make any fucking sense. She knew she had to somehow capture the magical signature of individuals within a certain geographical space, centered on the place rather than the people so she could pick up new signatures… but how does one capture the signatures of a place?

Tom, apparently, was not one to be ignored. His tone was a tad chilly to express his displeasure. “Hermione? You look like you’re a few seconds away from a panic attack. Which would no doubt cause some kind of explosion, based on how much you are sparking. I’m sure that’s the only reason why our dear Ms. Jackson hasn’t come over to investigate your newly acquired hoarding habit…”

After Hermione once again failed to say anything, Tom let out an overly aggravated sigh and snatched the book out from in front of her. Hermione swung around to glare at him, ignoring as a spark traveled from her cascade of curls down to her stained fingers.

“Do I have your attention?”

“Give it back.” She held out her hand and glared as if that alone would be enough to make him combust. Harry and Ron had learned to be wary of this look, which often times occurred while she was studying for exams.

Tom wasn’t so easily cowed. “No. Now tell me, what are you working on?”

Hermione waited, still holding her hand out, glaring. But Tom was exceedingly perseverant, and as anxious as she was, she didn’t have the patience to challenge his obstinacy. She let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m trying to create an enchanted map. One that will tell us where Dumbledore is at all times. So we can keep track of his spying habits.”

Tom’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Fascinating.” She could tell he meant it. “What have you got down so far?”

The next hour was spent detailing all of the aspects of the map she had been able to reproduce. The illustration of Hogwarts, it’s grounds, and Hogsmeade. Security measures that assured it was password protected. How to ensure only true names were reproduced. And then she demonstrated what she had yet to figure out.

She could practically see the cogs in his brain turning. “Hm. Well I might have an idea for that. Just let me fetch a text…”

By curfew they had a working outline for the spells they would need to put together. But it appeared that Tom was too impatient to wait in order to continue their private meeting. He walked her to the seventh floor where he knew Gryffindor common room was, and then grabbed her forearm before she could walk in.

“Wait.”

A sigh. “What is it?”

“I want to try one more place.”

“Tom. I’m tired. Let’s do this tomorrow.”

“Our truce has ended, you realize.”

Hermione just sighed again, feeling exhausted. “Mmhm.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at her. “Just because we have managed some level of cordiality recently doesn’t mean I won’t do whatever I have to in order to make you talk.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m serious.”

Hermione snorted, too tired to give a fuck.

Tom heard, and whirled on her, his eyes fierce and his wand raised. Hermione stared at him with a pitying smile. “Tom. I’ve starved. Been _petrified_. Magically drugged and dragged to the bottom of _lake_. Almost burnt to death by _Fiendfyre_. Tortured with knifes and curses. I’ve ridden a _mother fucking_ _dragon_ while it was trying to set me on fire and eat me alive. If you think you can still manage to intimidate me, best of luck.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s quite a list.”

“Mmhm.”

He let out a frustrated breath of air. “Do you think you could articulate? Manage actual words?”

“Sure.”

Tom sneered at her.

Hermione smirked.

To be honest, these failed attempts to have their ‘conference’ had entirely changed Hermione’s perspective about meeting with Tom. At first she had been slightly apprehensive, sure that her future spoke of inevitable torture and significantly less painful verbal sparring. But with each meeting that Dumbledore interrupted, Hermione witnessed these attempts became more about Tom and his feud with Dumbledore, and less about retrieving every scrap of information from her brain as quickly as possible. And with each meeting Hermione’s exasperation at his almost childish willingness to demand what _he_ wanted grew.

“I want to sleep, Tom.”

He tugged on her arm again. “One more place. Where it would be impossible for Dumbledore to interrupt us.”

It only took Hermione a few seconds to realized where they were, and what he was referring to. “The Room of Requirement…”

Tom’s surprise was easily written on his face. “You know of it?”

Hermione stared at the unfortunately striking boy next to her, and seriously considered whether she should go along with his suggestion. It hadn’t opened for her yet, and she had paced these hallways for hours in the last month and a half that she had been here. But she couldn’t deny she was extremely curious to see if it would open when she was with someone else… “Alright. Let’s try it.” It came out of her mouth before she remembered the purpose of their meeting.

Tom smirked triumphantly and began dragging her down the hallway. Hermione frowned and stopped to jerk her arm loose. Then she began pacing by his side. She looked over at him with a raised brow. “Do you enjoy being dragged?”

He ignored her with pursed lips, correctly assuming the question was rhetorical, and they continued up and down the halls. Up and down, three times. And a door appeared. Hermione was more than a little anxious to open it, because she didn’t know what Tom had been thinking about, but she had wanted a way home.

It was not to be.

“Tsk, tsk. Such naughty children wandering around the corridor past curfew.”

Miss Meadows flung herself dramatically around the corner of the corridor, and Hermione realized with a kind of muted horror that the older woman was wearing a bright pink cape, shimmering with sequins and lined with ribbons and lace. It was honestly one of the most tacky, grotesque things Hermione had never seen.

“What is she wearing?” Tom face was scrunched in disgust, and his whispered tone seemed to indicate that he felt the same way that she did.

Hermione whispered back. “Fulfilling her long begotten desire to become a pink mermaid in whatever desperate way she can?”

Tom’s lips quirked up.

Miss Meadows was not pleased her dramatic entrance wasn’t met with fear, or at least a little bit of apprehension. “What are you whispering about over there? Colluding, no doubt.”

Hermione smiled. It was a rather nasty smile. “Oh, of course not, Miss Meadows! We were just remarking on what a fantastic cape you are wearing.”

Miss Meadows fluttered her pudgy hands about herself as if flustered with the praise. “Well, it is one of my favorites. But my classroom is usually so warm, I can’t justify wearing it while I’m teaching…”

Tom’s smirk looked like half a sneer. “Such a shame.”

Miss Meadows sniffed to herself. “Yes, well… I’m afraid you are both going to have to serve detention with me next Monday. Wandering about the halls together after curfew, _without_ a chaperone… most unseemly. Not surprising, given what I know of your backgrounds, but still not something to be encouraged.”

Tom’s lip slowly curled back, showing a hint of displeasure. “Pardon me for asking, but I thought Professor Merrythought was supposed to have recovered by today? And that you would return to your… _important_ work at the Ministry?”

Miss Meadows smiled unpleasantly. “Yes, well… the professor is getting on in her years, which seems to have delayed her recovery. I will be here for at least another two weeks.”

“How fortunate, that the Ministry can afford to allow your absence for another couple of weeks.”

The older woman’s smile sharpened. “They understand how important the role of an educator is in our society, and have made certain allowances as a result. Now scurry along. To your common rooms. Shoo.”

She fairly marched Hermione to the door of the Gryffindor Common Room, and that was it. Although Hermione was slightly amused to see Tom was fairly snarling as he was manhandled away.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Hermione saw Tom, which was the next morning, she did a double take in the Great Hall. His Slytherin tie was askew. His hair was, dare she say, gently tussled instead of in its usual perfectly coiled state. His sleeves were rolled up, and there were smudges of ink that flashed from the pads of his fingers as he ran his fingers through his hair. There were even bags under his eyes…

A random Gryffindor girl she was passing by grabbed her shoulders and fairly shook her. The pretty blonde looked slightly devastated. “What did you do to Tom?!”

Hermione frowned. “Pardon?”

“You did something to him! I’ve seen you guys sitting together in the library, and now _look_! He’s starting to look like you!” Her voice got slightly hysterical as she finished.

“But he just looks… tired?”

“EXACTLY!”

Hermione tried not to be offended as she carefully extricated herself from the obviously deranged female, and sat down next to Charles. Elijah came up on her other side and threw himself down into the seat next to her.

“Did you see the state of his hair? Hermione. Love. What did you do to our dear Head Boy last night?”

“How did you know we were together last night?”

Elijah gave her a look.

Charles looked between the two of them with interest. And then towards Hermione. “I thought you hated the guy?”

“I do.”

“And yet it has been at least… two weeks? Since I’ve seen you give the man a death glare during meals?”

“We had a truce.”

Charles snorted. “A truce? How old are you?”

Hermione pursed her lips and glared at the Potter.

Charles kept talking. “It’s just… aren’t you kind of old to turn your feelings off and on at the drop at a hat, just because you called a truce?”

“You are mistaking emotional maturity for flippancy…”

Elijah snorted. “He’s just suggesting that maybe you don’t hate the guy as much as you think you do. And I am rather curious why you “hate” him, by the way. What has he done to you?”

Hermione grimaced, thinking about… everything. “Something unspeakable.”

Elijah frowned at her expression. Then put his hands behind his head, casually leaned back, and smirked at her. “Well then. If you really hate him… Bag him. Whip him. And make him fucking serve you for the rest of your life.”

Charles gave him a disgusted look. “I’m not sure she’s into that.”

Elijah reached behind Hermione to shove Charles’ head. “I meant marriage, stupid.”

Charles turned to face the blonde, glaring.

“Marriage?” Hermione felt a bit… flabbergasted at the idea. She couldn’t even imagine…

Charles sighed, and then turned to Hermione with an exasperated expression. “I’ve seen more surprising couples.”

Hermione decided that now would be a great time to leave. She stood up and grabbed her book bag. “That’s an… interesting approach. But I really need to go to the library…”

Elijah smirked. “And the fact that Riddle is leaving at the exact same time is just a coincidence?”

Hermione looked across the Great Hall and saw that Tom had gotten up, finally aware of all of the scrutiny, and was striding towards the door with a scowl on his face. She sighed. “I don’t care. I have to write a paper. See you later Charles. Elijah.”

It was a quiet walk to the library, and Hermione was unhappy to realize Tom was sitting at one of the study tables. He looked up when she came in and gestured for her to approach. Hermione did so, feeling wary and tired. He looked… frazzled.

“Where have you been? Sit down. I’m almost finished.”

Hermione cautiously sat down. If she didn’t know any better, she would say Tom was acting rather… wired. “You wouldn’t happen to have had any coffee recently?”

Tom just let out a disgusted sigh. “That’s not important. Look, the map is almost finished. Meet me outside the Prefect’s Bath at 4?”

“Sure. Can I ask what brought this on? We were planning to finish it this morning anyways. It looks like you have been working on it all night.”

“That… woman and I ran into Dumbledore on our way to my common room last night. She was her delightful self, of course, but Dumbledore… more vicious than usual. I realized we needed to move our timeline up if we were going to meet. Expect a conference from him soon, by the way.”

Hermione sighed. “Fantastic.”

“Isn’t it? And there is something else you should know. Apparently our behavior together is now to be monitored by the rest of the faculty at all times.”

“Seriously? What in the world do they think we will do?”

Tom snorted. “Something diabolical. Apparently. What else could two teenagers be up to in the middle of the night?”

Hermione made a face. “That sounds kind of… dirty.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, before slowly smirking.

Hermione sighed. And changed the subject. “You should at least look in the mirror. I’ve been accused of rubbing off on you.”

His smirk widened.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin…”

 

* * *

 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter only had a brief edit- let me know if you notice any errors? And feel free to let me know how you feel about the direction/pace of the story. And what you would like to see more of next chapter. Expect some Dumbledore, Meadow's detention... but I'm open to requests. :)


	8. Hermione Makes an Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Elijah finally interact.

**Chapter 8: Hermione Make an Oath**

* * *

 

Hermione stared dispassionately at the auburn-haired man opposite her. She was 95% sure they were engaged in some kind of impromptu staring contest, or at least a nonverbal battle of wills, and had prevented herself from blinking (just in case) to avoid appearing weak.

She wondered if it was easier to avoid blinking or harder when one was wearing spectacles. Did the man have an unfair advantage?

Dumbledore had wasted no time intercepting Hermione during what should have been her lunch hour. He seemed oddly gleeful, in fact, as she was marched out of the Great Hall like some kind of wayward child. The Head Boy had narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and given her a look of grave consideration. As if she was on her way to receive a lobotomy, and he was trying to determine what kind of person she would be after it was over. Reevaluating her worth.

Or perhaps that was a little dramatic. But Tom seemed to find her fatalistic musings entertaining, if she was correctly interpreting his twitching lips. Ah, gallows humor.

But now that she was waiting in his office, she got the needle as she impatiently waited for her Head of House to pounce. She hated gloaters. All she could do was stare him down and attempt to convey her irritation.

He finally blinked, and Hermione mentally relished her victory.

It didn’t last. He finally got around to opening his stupid mouth.

“I must say, I am rather disappointed to discover that you are so untrustworthy. I had expected greater things from you.”

Hermione stared at him in sullen silence. She refused to be guilt-tripped with pretty lies, especially by _this_ man.

“And I’m afraid there are consequences to your actions.”

Hermione huffed, already fed up with his posturing. “What did I do, exactly?”

Dumbledore gave her a hard look. “There are very tangible reasons why the timeline must be maintained. Yet it seems every time I turn around, there you are being interrogated by Mister Riddle.”

“Aside from general personal facts, I have not disclosed to Tom anything about the future.”

“I am not an idiot, Miss Granger. That was only due to my intervention.”

“There is no way of proving whether or not that is true. So you are punishing me for hypothetical behavior. How is that in any way appropriate?”

The smile he gave her was thin and did little to hide his aggravation. “You are not in the position to determine what is appropriate. So I’m afraid we are going to have to cut down on your workload.”

Hermione felt her eyes turn hard. “That is not a power you have, either as my Head of House or Deputy Headmaster.”

His smile grew unpleasant. “You are right in this instance; it is up to the discretion of the Professor in charge. And I would like to offer my condolences, because as of this afternoon you are no longer welcome in Transfiguration.”

Hermione bitterly ground her teeth, forcing herself not to cry frustrated tears, and tried to console herself with the fact that she should still be able to take the Transfiguration N.E.W.T. at the end of the year.

“I have also spoken to Miss Meadows, and I agree with her that your participation in that class is also inappropriate.”

Hermione pursed her lips in resentment. “That is a decision neither of you have the power to make. According to the school charter, adjunct faculty, which includes visiting speakers and substitute professors, do not have to power to expel a student from any course in the curriculum. Furthermore, there is precedent of females engaging in N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts in the past, so my presence is not inherently inappropriate. In any case, I’m afraid you will have to wait until Professor Merrythought returns in order to _properly_ evaluate the appropriateness of my participation.”

His lips curled back into a sneer. “Or perhaps this matter should be evaluated by the Headmaster?”

Hermione leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs in a dismissive manner. “By all means.”

If this man succeeded in screwing her over, she would not hesitate to do the same. Starting with her discussion with Riddle, but who knew where she could go from there. She could act as a consultant and encourage rich foggies to make lucrative investments and cash in on their success. She could sell herself as a Seer and correctly predict all of the major natural disasters and economic downturns until the turn of the century. She could inform _The Prophet_ that Dumbledore and Grindenwald had been lovers a couple of decades ago. The sky was the fucking limit when she decided she was too bitter for morality to be a deterrent.

“Then I will be sure to do so. In the meantime, we should try to keep you occupied so you aren’t tempted to talk to anyone you shouldn’t. And you are just in luck. Cassandra Vablatsky, a very well-known Seer, is offering a seminar two hours before dinner. I expect you to attend.”

Hermione couldn’t stop her face from scrunching up in disgust at the thought, and saw Dumbledore smirk vindictively at her.

“And just in case you do manage to squeeze some time in for our Head Boy, I would like to remind you that any encounter between the two of you that I deem inappropriate will be brought in front of the Headmaster. But I’m sure you will behave yourself. After all, those kind of trysts are _most_ unseemly, and the damage to your reputations could be _irreparable_.”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself in indulging in her newest coping mechanism in her fury. Unfortunately, the image of jamming one of Dumbledore’s pointless pointy knickknacks into the side of his skull was less satisfying than it should be.

“Now that our business has been conducted, I must ask you to leave. I have an appointment.”

Fucking controlling, hypocritical piece of shit.

Hermione wasted no time bounding out of his office and down the hall. Hungry, and needing to rant a bit, she headed straight for the kitchens, and almost ran into the Head Boy in her determination to get there as quickly as possible.

“Granger?” His brow was raised curiously, and through it she could read all of the questions he wasn’t asking. What happened? What did Dumbledore say? Why do you look so angry?

Hermione didn’t bother to reply, swinging her arm around his elbow and dragging him along the tide that was her fury. She didn’t even remember reaching the kitchens. One moment she was furiously bounding down the hall, the next she was sitting at a counter in the kitchen and Elijah was hastily trying to feed her cake.

She was ranting.

“I am going to ruin that man, Elijah! Goddamn hypocrite of a wizard feels it necessary to punish me for ‘hypothetical behavior’. How is that in any way appropriate? That is not the way the law works, here or in the muggle world. A crime needs to be committed before someone can be punished, and not even thoughts colluding to an infraction are subject to censure. So what is this? An abuse of his position that enables him to indulge in his controlling, dare I say tyrannical megalomania…”

Elijah casually interrupted her, shooting her bemused companion a wary look as he slid two, very generous portions of chocolate cake in their direction. “Love, not to disabuse you from the plausibility of your intention, but… how do you plan to ruin a man like _Albus Dumbledore_?”

Hermione felt her lips curl back into a scowl. “I know all the details of his sordid past, of course. You know, back when he took on a Dark Lord as a lover, and they used to muggle bait and experiment with the Dark Arts together for fun.”

Hermione took a fork in her right hand, and started to violently cut her cake into smaller pieces. “I thought about shoving one of his stupid contraptions through his skull, but… death would be a mercy.”

That is what she eventually decided. Reputation meant everything to the wizard that went so far as to manipulate himself into martyrdom through the machination that was his death. And considering all of the threats the man had made about sullying her own reputation, it would be… satisfying to do the same in return if it became necessary.

Elijah sent her a curious look in between his absentminded attempts to lick the frosting from his fingers. “Apparently your violent tendencies extend beyond the occasional sucker punch.”

Tom snorted and stated, “You have no idea.” Hermione shot a quick look in his direction, still feeling defensive from her recent Dumbledore encounter. The still slightly disheveled Head Boy looked amused, and intrigued, and quite pleased to be eating a piece of decadent three-layer chocolate cake. Bastard.

She turned back towards the blonde. “You know what you did.”

Elijah’s grin was wide and smug as he blatantly ogled her breasts. “I do indeed. They are quite a pair.” He turned towards Tom, and made a show of pretending to whisper in confidence, “Don’t let the robes fool you.”

Tom’s eyebrow raised towards his hairline as he looked back and forth between the two of them speculatively, and Hermione was somewhat horrified to see that the Head Boy did actually seem to be evaluating her breasts. “Indeed?”

Hermione felt the need to clarify. Divert their conversation away from… whatever this was. “This twat fell on top of me and took the opportunity to feel me up. So I gave him a shiner.”

Tom’s expression settled into an unimpressed stare, which he shot at the young man across the counter. “I had no idea Hufflepuffs were so… gutsy.”

Elijah sighed theatrically at the Slytherin in exasperation. “House politics are boring. Call me a scoundrel if you’re determined to insult me. Although I personally consider myself something of a lady killer.” He sent Hermione a wink and a winning smile.

Hermione just rolled her eyes and took a bite of cake. Unfortunately for her Hufflepuff friend, she had recently become inured to beautiful boy smiles due to her reluctant exposure to their Head Boy.

The blonde pouted dramatically at her dismissal. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m ever so sorry that a flash of baby blues and a nice smile aren’t enough for me to lose my mind and drop my knickers.”

Elijah’s grin was back. “You continue to make sarcasm sound somehow sexy, my dear.”

Hermione snorted derisively. “Thank goodness you think so. Now I finally know how to approach a man. I’ll lean over and whisper, ‘You look like a rodent and smell like a chinchilla, why the fuck wouldn’t I want to go out with you?’. And before you know it, he’ll be eating out of my hand.”

“Seduce many men, do you?”

Hermione couldn’t stop from smirking mischievously. “Where would I get the opportunity?” She looked pointedly at both Tom and Elijah. “I don’t see any men here.”

Elijah put a hand to his chest, acting tragically wounded, just as Tom countered her attempt to be clever. “You are hardly the paragon of womanhood.”

“No? This coming from the boy that just spent a full minute looking at my breasts?”

Tom shrugged. “I’ve seen better.”

Elijah looked interested. “Whose?”

Tom stared directly into her eyes as he answered, and she was sure every word he spoke was meant to rankle her. “Lestrange’s are nice and plump. And White has the prettiest little nipples.”

Unfortunately for Tom, Hermione wasn’t surprised or disturbed by his crudeness; she already knew Tom was a big fan of shock value, and she knew Elijah had a special way of bringing vulgarity out in people. She forced a yawn, and took another delicious bite of cake.

Elijah observed this interplay and barked out an amused laugh, before he leaned towards Tom with the hint of a smile around his lips. “Riddle? Their tits could feel like clouds and taste like fucking caramel, and I still wouldn’t be interested. Those have to be the bitchiest, most high maintenance girls in this entire school. Not fucking worth it.”

Tom shrugged like girl’s being bitchy wasn’t something he ever had to deal with. “It’s just an exchange of expectations, Walker. Hardly as difficult as you are making it out to be.”

Elijah’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You have never had to deal with a girl that clung to you like a fucking monkey? Or was so insecure they thought you were cheating on them with every girl you said hello to in the corridor? The kind that didn’t seem to understand that space in a relationship is healthy?”

Tom just raised a brow.

“Bullshit. I’m calling fucking bullshit. I think you _have_ experienced that, and then dropped the girl because you thought she was annoying as hell.”

The Head Boy shrugged, and took a generous bite of cake.

Elijah snorted. And then jumped up from the counter and spun excitedly towards Hermione. “Oh! I just remembered that I have leftovers of a peanut butter mousse cake in my dorm that I wanted you to try. Will you stick around for a few more minutes? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Hermione nodded, nonplussed at his enthusiasm, and then the Hufflepuff wasted no time bounding out of the kitchen through a side entrance.

Feeling awkward in the sudden silence Elijah left behind, Hermione took the time to scoop up another mouthful as she considered the boy next to her. He seemed to be waiting for her to initiate the conversation, and after Hermione paused to swallow, she did just that. She purposely sat forward in her seat, and without looking at him, stated, “Sorry for dragging you in here. I wanted you to know that Dumbledore has moved from passive aggressive suggestions to outright threats about damaging our reputations due to fabricated trysts.”

“Hardly a surprising turn of events.”

“No. But meeting you in the Prefect Baths may seem particularly suspect, and I wanted you to know about the professor’s recent directives ahead of time.”

Tom nodded. “I appreciate the forewarning. Although I doubt that is why you dragged me in here.”

Hermione’s smile was thin. “You’re right. The game has changed. Dumbledore has made his stance clear, and unfortunately for him, I deem any attempts to disrupt my education unpardonable. I had little incentive to play nice before, and none now. And I have gone beyond caring about the ramifications of introducing a time paradox.”

“Which means?”

She finally turned to look at him, attempting to pin him down with her stare. “Which means I am ready to make our deal.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What _deal_? As far as I was aware, we were due to have a discussion. But I said nothing of a deal.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the boy. “Please, Tom. You know as well as I do that this has always been a negotiation. A game. You’ve been playing with me, and playing with Dumbledore. Which is why you didn’t drag me into an abandoned classroom and attempt to Crucio me into submission weeks ago.”

Tom spoke in carefully measured cadences, and Hermione could tell he was meticulously evaluating his next move. “Why would I be inclined to make a deal? If the game has, indeed, changed, perhaps now would be the perfect time for that torture session.”

Hermione gave the boy a hard look. “If you want to behave like an impatient, brash child, by all means. But you should know more about the two options before you decide. Option one, in which I cooperate and provide information that may prove crucial, but which you aren’t aware enough to ask for. Or two, you attempt to torture me until inevitably I lose my mind or die, which leaves you without any advantages.”

“How are you so sure I won’t be able to force you into submission?”

Hermione’s smile was crooked and malicious. “I’ve just arrived at the tail end of a war, Riddle. I’ve been exposed to torture. If it couldn’t crack me then, why do you think it might crack me now?”

His eyes gleamed with a hint of challenge. “I can be rather creative. If pain doesn’t work, what about pleasure? I could force you to ingest lust potions and withhold relief until you give me what I want.”

Hermione frowned, disturbed by the very idea, but she knew better than to show any blatant weaknesses in front of Tom. “If you feel the need to test my resolve. But that’s an imperfect method, and you know it.”

Tom’s smile was dark. “But still something to consider.”

And then he took out his wand and started to fiddle with the handle, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of power play. If it was, it wasn’t working. “I suppose the next step is to determine what you know, so I am aware of how much your knowledge is worth. And see just what you are expecting out of this deal.”

Hermione shrugged. “I want immunity.”

Tom’s eyebrow raised. “Immunity?”

Hermione nodded. “Protection. I want an oath that you will not physically, mentally, magically, financially, or in any way damage my self or my reputation, either by your hand or the hand of your minions.”

It took him a few moments to process this, before he nodded absentmindedly. “Anything else?”

Hermione bit her lip, hesitant if she wanted to add this as an official stipulation, but decided to push forward with the thought anyway. “If I show talent in the dueling competition next week, I want to be allowed to join the Dueling Club.”

Tom’s lips twitched, and she wondered what exactly he found amusing. “I suppose none of that is unreasonable. What do you know?”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, trying to decide how to approach this. Then, “I’m going to tell you a story. And I expect you to wait until the very end before you interrupt.”

Tom frowned.

“There once was a boy who grew up in an orphanage. He knew he wasn’t like the other boys and girls, for he had the power to do things they couldn’t. And he was right. Shortly after his eleventh birthday, he was visited by a bearded man who told him that he was a wizard. That he was special.”

“He came to Hogwarts and fell in love with the castle, and with magic. It gave him power and control, and fueled his ambitions. The boy decided that he wanted to become someone great. He wanted to bring about change. He wanted to live forever.”

She eyed him with an irritated scowl marring her face. “The stupid boy thought that splitting his soul was the most expedite way to obtain immortality. So with little care that he was sacrificing his magic and his sanity, the boy made horcruxes and collected a band of other children he dubbed knights that were to act as his minions. Because, naturally, he would be king.”

By now Tom was openly sneering. Hermione ignored him. “The boy became an adult. A completely moronic adult that continued to split his soul until his sanity was it tatters, left to drown in hubris and paranoid delusions. No longer capable of subtle manipulations, the stupid man began a ham-fisted reign of terror. But his control was short-lived. His coup was so guileless and destructive that the wizarding war proclaimed him a terrorist instead of a politician or revolutionary, and banded against him. In addition, the indiscriminate abuse of his followers encouraged betrayal. Ultimately, with few true allies, he assured his own self-destruction trying to fend off a prophecy spelling his doom.”

Hermione yawned, before she reached for another bite of cake. “Sound positively Greek, doesn’t it?” She chanced a glance at the boy beside her, and found him pointing his wand threateningly in her direction. What a surprise.

Hermione ignored him, and it took several minutes for Tom to work out a reply. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t, I suppose. But you could always make me take an oath too, and demand my honesty.”

His mouth pursed thoughtfully. “What more will you give me?”

Hermione raised a brow. “My honesty and knowledge isn’t enough?”

“What about your fealty? If I am, indeed, King.”

Hermione snorted. “You are not my better. And you are certainly no King of mine. But I suppose we could add on loyalty as a stipulation. But only if you agree to the same.”

He took a long pause, and then asked, “Would you be willing to pledge your magical talent?”

Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “No. You will just need to endear yourself to me so I feel compelled to help. Like normal people do.”

“I have no desire to be normal.”

Hermione huffed. “That’s a no, Tom. Now do we have a deal?”

The ruffled teen let out an exaggerated sigh of aggravation. “Fine. I assume you are aware of how to make a Wizarding Oath?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. Then you can go first.”

Hermione gave Tom a hard look. “No.”

His brow raised. “You want to renegade on our deal?”

“No, I am not going first. I am giving you knowledge in exchange for my protection. I do not intend to offer anything until that has been taken care of first.”

They attempted to stare each other down, and Hermione listlessly wondered how many staring contests a person usually engaged in in one day.

It took several minutes, but after determining that Hermione was not bluffing and had no intention of standing down, Tom apparently chose the best course of action. “I want your word that you will make the Oath as soon as I am finished making mine.”

“I swear.”

There was a swish of magic with just a hint of compulsion, but that apparently was enough to make Tom feel more comfortable moving forward. He twirled his wand around, and Hermione could recognize a couple of obfuscation and muffling charms.

Then he turned towards her, and Hermione was briefly amused to notice the hint of a smear of chocolate on the edge of the corner of his lips.

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, do swear by my magic that I will be loyal to Hermione Granger, and will ensure that she is not harmed in any manner by my hand or according to my orders.” There was another swish of magic, much brighter, that wrapping twirling swirls of golden light around his body. Hermione was dismayed to realize he looked almost ethereal, and was sure that he had never appeared more beautiful.

And then magic prompted her to reciprocate. She didn't fight it. “I, Hermione Jean Granger, do swear by my magic that I will be loyal to Tom Marvolo Riddle, and will truthfully impart knowledge that will aid him according to his ambitions.” Another swirl of light erupted from the ground at her feet and wrapped around her body.

Tom smirked at her choice of phrasing. “You didn’t want to be magically compelled towards complete honesty with me _all the time_?”

Hermione snorted. “I thought you enjoyed my sarcasm too much to do that, Riddle. I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

He barked out a laugh, and then reached forward to take her glowing wrist in his hand. They gripped each other’s forearms in a traditional demonstration of accord, just as the light surrounding their bodies bound together, and the heat from the joining seemed to spread down the length of her body. And then suddenly, there was more, somehow. Her level of awareness was… more. His emotions, his expressions, his body- it was hard to pinpoint. Where the moreness originated from. But it was there. And if the intensity of his stare was anything to go by, he could feel it too.

Still staring into his eyes, Hermione felt a familiar tension compelling them closer. What she had previously dismissed as animal magnetism now seemed to be a very real pressure that felt urgent and necessary. And her mouth inched closer to his as their magic thrummed in delight. And there was that hint of chocolate, and more than anything in the world, Hermione wanted to lick it off his lips...

“Hermione?”

The moment disappeared, and Hermione found herself blinking owlishly at Elijah and mentally reprimanding herself for not going back to the library to investigate Caster’s publication. Clearly, she needed additional research.

Tom let go of her forearm, and Hermione glanced back at him, surprised to notice that his expression was completely dispassionate. “If you’ll excuse me,” he stated almost absentmindedly, before stalking out of the kitchen.

Hermione stared after him, frowning.

“Well, well, well. Someone wasn’t wasting any time putting the moves on our Head Boy, hm?”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn and tried to ignore the blonde teen, throwing herself at her piece of chocolate cake with the desperation of woman in need of both a distraction and an emotional boost.

“I admit; the man looked positively edible wrapped in gold. I’m just a little concerned about the bit I heard about orphaned boys dallying around with Dark Magic and world domination.”

Oh god, Elijah heard their entire conversation. “It’s complicated.”

He scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock. You both took magical oaths, of course it’s fucking complicated.”

Hermione felt a conflicted urge to frown and pout at the same time. “What was I supposed to do?”

Elijah’s eyebrows went up incredulously. “Ignore him? That’s all you had to do. Pretend he didn’t exist, and you wouldn’t have gotten involved.”

This time Hermione frowned. “I’m not very good at that.”

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Clearly.”

“I suppose you feel rather silly for your suggestion that I marry the boy, now that you know more about him?”

The look Elijah sent her was measured. “No, I still think it’s in the cards. Might be good for both of you, actually. You can reign each other in from acting overly violent and homicidal.”

“Or we could egg each other into really discovering the depths of our depravity.”

The blonde rolled his eyes again. “Sure. The two of you will become the next Dark Lord and Dark Lady, and I will forever regret the moment I introduced the possibility of marriage between you. Just don’t fucking kill me if that happens, yes? Employ me instead. I could be your personal chef?”

Hermione gave into a humorous impulse and sent him a dramatic sniff. “Perhaps, Mister Walker, perhaps. But I’m sure the competition for personal chef to the magical world’s overlords will be fierce, and I’m not sure we can accept someone not even capable of producing an adequate soufflé.”

“You don’t even like soufflé.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, and giggled when Elijah started laughing, relishing in their ability to act childishly even with the dark burden that was their future hanging over them. Because she knew Elijah was no idiot. He was now probably very aware that she was actually from the future, that the future was troubled, and that their Head Boy had something to do with those troubles.

She would have to keep an eye on him. While their acquaintanceship had finally transitioned into the beginning of a friendship, she didn’t know the boy well enough to predict what he might do with the information he just obtained. She felt it necessary to add, “Be careful around Riddle. He probably wouldn’t be pleased to know that you overheard our conversation.”

Just in case.

Elijah gave her a surprisingly somber nod. Hermione sighed, wondering at the complication that was her life, and stuffed another large piece of chocolate cake in her mouth.

* * *

Cassandra Vablatsky certainly looked like a woman that lived and breathed the ‘mystical arts’. Wrapped in dramatic purple robes, she otherwise had the garments of a gypsy. A fantastical collection of beads, coins, scarves, and gauze was wrapped around her neck, wrists, waist, and ankles in a dizzying display. She jingled every time she took a step, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from judging the woman a charlatan just based on the _costume_ she was wrapped in.

She didn’t trust people who played into stereotypes. It reminded her uncomfortably of Lockhart, and the utter misfortune that had been her brief infatuation with the image he presented, rather than the actual man.

“Hello, students and faculty, and welcome to my most recent seminar series titled, _Exploring Divination: The Gift of Prophesy_. Now I know that Seers and prophesy-making has been overgeneralized and, dare I say, sensationalized in recent times. It has certainly become a trope favored by many contemporary wizarding authors as a convenient plot device to bring characters together, or create a sense of dramatic foreshadowing. I am here, however, to set the record straight. Together, we will discover what it means to make a true prophesy, how the manifestation of these prophesies are stored, and the impact that future-telling has had in recent and distant history.”

Hermione felt her mood instantly sour. She had disliked prophecies since she was child. Ever a fan of the classics, her parents had encouraged Hermione to read Sophocles the summer after she turned ten. It turned out to be a frustrating read, however; Hermione easily determined that Oedipus’ tragic circumstances were due to the interference of oracles, and couldn’t understand why anyone would willingly hear their tragic fate, particularly as said fates had a tendency to be self-fulfilling.

And then Hermione’s personal exposure to prophesy as it pertained to the pain and misfortune experienced by her good friend Harry cemented her enmity of the practice.  

“It can sometimes be difficult to spot when a true prophesy is being made, especially if a fraud is aware of the trademarks. But it is still possible. Generally, individuals making a fake prophesy have a tendency to put an over-emphasis on the animation of their body. They may shake, or appear to go into a fit. True prophesies do not cause the body to move. In fact, as a Seer’s body is made a vessel for magic to impart information, it is actually less likely to move.”

In fact, this entire situation reminded Hermione of a quote her father used to make whenever he read something in the paper that he thought was particularly short-sighted. A military history aficionado, he took a particular interest in World War II, and was very fond of George S. Patton. An American general who served in the U.S. Third Army following the invasion of Normandy, John Granger particularly liked the quote, “Prepare for the unknown by studying how others in the past have coped with the unforeseeable and the unpredictable.”

Clearly, when one had an option to hear a prophesy, the correct course of behavior should be to _not_ listen.

“Prophesies have been collected and stored at the Department of Mysteries for centuries. In fact, it was originally the invention of an Unspeakable that made it possible for prophesies to be recorded in easy-to-carry, spun-glass containers. Said Unspeakable was also responsible for the safety measure implemented that made it impossible for anyone other than the recipient to have access to the prophesy.”

Hermione sighed, agitated and morose, and absentmindedly doodled into the side of a parchment. She started looking around at the people sitting by her out of boredom, and was surprised to see Tom Riddle staring directly at her.

She wasn’t surprised to see he was there, considering his interest in Divination. But why was he staring at her? He blinked, and no closer to an answer, Hermione’s mind went off on a tangent considering the predisposition dictators (the closest thing to a Dark Lord in the muggle world) seemed to share of obsessing over the mystical and esoteric.

But then their invited speaker abruptly stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, and Hermione’s attention was drawn to the front of the room. Cassandra was completely still for several long moments, and then appearing in a trance-like state, the woman slowly turned her head until she was looking directly at Hermione. In an altered voice came the words, “She whose footsteps tread time and place-”

Oh, fuck no.

Somehow sure this prophesy had something to do with her, and not at all wanting to hear any more than she already did, Hermione stood up and walked right out of the room.

Because fuck that shit.

But she still had another hour before dinner, and not wanting to risk another Dumbledore confrontation today, continued to walk until eventually she found herself outside next to the Black Lake.

She took a long moment to breathe. Felt the chilling breeze. Looked at the large expanse of water that did indeed, at this moment in time, appear black. And thought about how much better her life assuredly was not hearing what that ridiculous woman had to say.

Enjoying her time outside, she didn’t think to remember that Tom had been in that room, and that he had a tendency to react irrationally to prophesies.

* * *

To be continued...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to add a quick note about why I thought Tom was willing to add loyalty as a clause to his oath, as that might seem a little OOC for him. Although he would absolutely hate being beholden to anyone, I believe he judged this as both a gamble and a necessary sacrifice. Because if Hermione was right- if he actually does eventually reach his untimely demise- that is something he needs to be able to prevent. But knowing that he has Horcruxes makes her a very dangerous individual indeed, because she would be able to kill him. He very much needs her loyalty in order to avoid the chance that she might turn on him and tell someone else how to destroy him, and so she will feel more inclined to help him with his plans. And as a person with antisocial personality disorder, and without many strong attachments to other people, I do not believe he fully understands what kind of a committment loyalty would demand from him.
> 
> What do you think, does that make sense? Please let me know. Miss Meadow's detention next chapter, in which dear Tom and Hermione will need to confront each other about the ill-timed prophesy and the issue of their magical compatibility. 
> 
> In general, what do you think? In any case, thank you so much for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its franchises. More's the pity.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I accept kudos, comments, and air hugs. *cue dramatic thumbs up pose reminiscent of Might Guy*


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